


Prey

by CelestialVoid



Series: Prey [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, BAMF Allison, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, District 12 Stiles, District 2 Derek, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Tracker Jackers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 55,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I volunteer as tribute!”<br/>Silence fell over District 12.<br/>They held their breaths, their heartbeats pounding in their ears and lungs burning for air as their eyes turned to the voice.<br/>Not him. Not the boy who had never picked a fight or shown hostility towards anyone – except occasionally sassing a peace keeper who overstepped their boundaries – before in his life, not the boy who selflessly traded his name in at the Reaping every year for tesserae that would help his father, Scott, Isaac and Melissa live another year, not the boy who was nothing more than 147 pounds of skin and fragile bone.<br/>Stiles Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles bolted upright in the bed, his scream tearing at his throat and emptying his lungs.

His father leapt across the small shack, pulling the boy back against his chest. He pinned Stiles’ slender flailing arms to his side and held him in his warmth. Stiles fought back for a minute, thrashing about as his father whispered to him. The boy’s heart-breaking wail died down to a soft sob as hot tears splashed against the dusting of hair on his father’s strong forearms and he settled back into the security of his hold.

Stiles tried to calm his breathing, his hands trembling as he brushed his fingertips against his dad’s arms.

The nightmares had troubled him for years, but on the day of the Reaping they were always so much worse.

John sighed, relinquishing his son from his hold and setting the boy down among the sheets.

Stiles avoided his father’s eyes, feeling his cool blue irises burn into his temple.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Stiles muttered. “It’s just another nightmare.”

“Stiles, don’t sign up for the tessera this year,” his father said solemnly.

“I have to, Dad,” Stiles objected. “Scott, Allison and I can hunt, but even so, we barely have enough food on the table for you, Melissa, Allison’s father, Isaac and ourselves. We need the tessera. We don’t have enough rations to survive another year without it.”

“We’ll find a way,” John whispered.

“Dad, it’s fine... Just a couple more years,” Stiles whispered. “If I can make it just a couple more years then we don’t have to worry about the Games anymore.”

“Then what will we do about the rations?”

“I’ll work in the mines,” Stiles offered, glaring at the old man when he snorted and swallowed his laughter. “I’ll earn money one way or another,” Stiles assured him.

John sighed, his soft blue eyes filling with sorrow as the creases beneath his eyes filled with shadows.

Stiles gently patted his father’s shoulder and rose from the bed to cross the bedroom.

The room was small, the thin walls built from wooden planks that bowed with age, the rough grains filled with shadows and the faintest scent of pine – tainted and dominated by the bitter scent of the coal. Two tiny beds were crammed side by side with just enough room to slide between them and over to the small, rotting cupboard that sat beside the door. Stiles tugged at the frayed piece of string that they had looped through the hole where the handle had fallen out years ago. The rusted hinges groaned as he pulled it open and rummaged through the rags, towards the back where he kept his dress clothes: worn only for the Reaping. These clothes were the only ones in his cupboard that didn’t have odd-coloured patches or gaping holes. He ran his fingers over the sleeve, stroking the soft sky-blue cotton. He pulled it off the small hook and laid it atop the mattress along with a pair of faded grey pants that his father had worn in his youth and a pair of leather shoes which he would polish later.

Stiles walked out into the main area of the house and lit the fire, filling the large pot with water and setting it over the flickering orange flames to boil. He sat down before the warm glow and waited.

Soft footsteps patted the floorboards as Scott crept up behind him, crouching down beside the smaller boy and tossing another log onto the fire.

“Nightmares?” Scott asked softly.

Stiles nodded.

“Just the usual,” Stiles replied. He drew in a steady breath, feeling Scott’s worried gaze focused on him. He changed the subject before his friend had the chance to insist. “I’ll prepare the bath if you can drag Isaac out here.”

Scott sighed, patting his friend’s shoulder. He rose and dragged his feet across the rough floorboards, following the worn down path as to avoid splinters. He muttered something under his breath about how Isaac had given him a black eye last time and several bruised ribs the time before.

There was five of them in the house: Stiles and his father who had taken in Melissa and Scott after the boy’s father died in a collapsed mine, and Isaac who had been collectively adopted after both his parents and his older brother had died.

Melissa worked as one of the District’s medical personnel – despite the fact that Twelve didn’t have a District hospital. She traded medicine for food and resources or gave it to those who had nothing to trade. John worked alongside Chris in the mines, much like hundreds of others. It paid poorly, but at least it paid. Scott and Stiles were both sixteen, too young to work in the mines but young enough to skip around, hunt and sell produce – somewhat illegally – without being noticed. Isaac was a year younger than them, but trauma seemed to have limited his maturity, leaving him reliant on the boys and Allison.

They struggled – living off the tesserae that Scott and Stiles put in for every year, granted that only covered each of them and their parents – but they survived, although the struggles had worn away at Stiles; years of offering his meals to others was evident in his pale, lanky appearance.

The water in the pot began to steam and bubble.

Stiles sighed and rose to his feet. He wrapped towels around his hands and dragged the pot off the boil. He carried it over to the edge of the bath and carefully poured it into the small bathtub. He poured some cold water into the old stained tub to even out the temperature and collected the soap just as Scott led Isaac out of their bedroom by the hand. The younger boy dragged his feet, mumbling what sounded like a flurry of obscenities as he rubbed his tired eyes.

“Come on, Isaac,” Scott coaxed. “Just got to get you cleaned up and then we’ll have breakfast.”

“I don’t want to,” Isaac mumbled. He’d learnt by now not to fight back against Scott because he was much larger, much faster and much stronger than the scrawny little boy. Scott helped Isaac strip off the rags he called his pyjamas and lifted him into the bath.

Stiles rubbed the soap across Isaac’s pale skin, scrubbing off the layers of dirt and coal to reveal the glistening white flesh beneath. He rinsed Isaac down before handing the soap over to Scott for the older boy to wash Isaac’s hair. Apparently he did it a certain way that relaxed the boy, and only Scott could do it the way Isaac liked it.

Stiles busied himself filling the pot with water again and dragging it over to the fire. He set it to boil and scurried over to Scott and Isaac’s bedroom. It was the same as the room Stiles shared with his dad, it had minimal furniture and was verging on claustrophobic.

He rifled through their cupboard and pulled out the pale shirts and clean pants, setting them down on their beds before collecting their shoes.

There was splash of water as Isaac clambered out of the bath and his small feet thumped across the floorboards towards his bedroom.

Even though he was fifteen, Isaac was more energetic and bubbly than Scott and Stiles, clinging to the naivety of his age. It gave them peace to see that the Games, poverty and the trauma of being an orphan hadn’t yet rattled that out of him.

Stiles stepped into to the doorway and held up a towel for Isaac who ran right into it and wound it around his body. Sometimes it felt like they were performing a rehearsed comical routine.

“Get dressed and I’ll buff your shoes,” he instructed as Isaac began to pat his skin dry.

Isaac smiled sweetly, his dimples pressing into his cheeks as he reached for the clothes on his bed.

Stiles stepped into the kitchen, smiling sweetly at Melissa who had begun to prepare their breakfast. Stiles collected a dishrag and dampened it, scrubbing at the coal and dust of the five pairs of leather shoes, although it would be redundant because they’d be filthy the second they stepped out the door.

Melissa passed him a slice of bread even though she knew he wouldn’t eat it.

Stiles smiled at her.

She stepped forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

Seconds later, Isaac bounced into the room, clean and dressed. Melissa passed him his slice of bread and motioned for him to sit at the table so she could make an attempt at taming his unruly curls.

Stiles picked up another slice of bread and set it down on a plate for Scott when he finished bathing. He carried a towel into the small cove of the bathroom. He laid it down for Scott, who smiled gratefully, before returning to his task of polishing the shoes.

Scott splashed about as he rose out of the water. Stiles heard him hurl the heavy pot about, pouring some more hot water into the tub before he hurried into his bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist.

Stiles finished buffing the shoes before taking his turn in the bath. He tugged his rag-like tee-shirt over his head and tossed it across the room. He slid into the bath and sank down into the murky warm water, deciding not to waste time with simple comforts.

He reached for the soap and scrubbed at his skin until it was pink and his scattered moles were visible.

He stepped out of the tub and drained it, wrapping a towel around his waist as he watched the silt and grime recede down the side of the tub. When it was empty, he filled it with the rest of the hot water and a little more cool water, leaving it there for Melissa and his father to take their turns.

He strolled into his room, feeling numb as he dressed and made his way into the body of the small house. He surrendered his slice of bread to Isaac, who had been eyeing it eagerly, and sat down at the end of the table, hanging his head and sitting in silence until he felt his father’s heavy hand fall to his shoulder and his warm husky voice whisper, “It’s time.”

He didn’t realise he was moving by habit until a peacekeeper asked him for his hand. Stiles extended his arm, feeling the needle prick his fingertip and draw a bead of blood in order to mark the records and declare his attendance. He was herded into the crowd and told to stand next to Scott. The boys craned their neck, looking a few rows in front of them until they could find Isaac.

The younger boy looked scared and out of place. The young boys either side of him tried to comfort him, assuring him that it would all be over soon.

Scott inhaled deeply. Usually he was good at hiding his nerves, but when you consider how much their family relied on them and how many times he and Stiles had put their names in the bowl in exchange for the tessera, their mortality hung heavy over their heads and that was something to be afraid of.

Stiles gently nudged Scott’s arm.

Scott looked at his friend, a soft smile lifting the corners of his lips as he began to breathe easier.

The presenter, a young lady – no older than the boys – from the Capitol, stepped up onto the stage and introduced herself as Lydia Martin.

She was dolled up like a work of art, dressed in a frilly white cocktail dress, with a trail of pastel coloured butterflies trailing up over her shoulder and into the curls of her strawberry blonde hair. Natural hair, Stiles noted, not an ugly wig like all the other presenters or citizens of the Capitol would wear.

The previous victors – well, _victor_ – of District Twelve, Peter Hale, joined her. He had won the Games a few of years ago, and became a recluse not long after that. He wasn’t an attractive man, but he did present himself well. He had light brown hair, sleeked back to reveal his firm expression and surprisingly youthful face. There was no mistaking he had been in the Games; it had scarred him: darkened his bright blue eyes and revealed his sardonic, manipulative, sociopathic nature.

The mayor of District Twelve followed the others up onto the stage, stepping forward to present his annual speech about how the Hunger Games provided the Districts with peace through the sacrifice one ‘courageous’ young man and woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each District. They are to participate in the Games in order to never repeat the rebellion and tragedy of District Thirteen or the Dark Days.

When he finished Lydia stepped forward, strutting across the stage and balancing atop high heels. The caps of her heels tapped the plating of the podium, pounding in Stiles’ ears and slamming the air from his lungs with every step she took. She stepped up to the microphone and smiled sweetly.

“I wish you all a happy Hunger Games,” she chirped. “And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour.”

Silence fell over District Twelve.

“Ladies first.”

They held their breaths, their heartbeats pounding in their ears and lungs burning for air as Lydia buried her hand into the glistening glass bowl filled with names. Her fingers stirred the paper slips about as she plucked one from the mess. She stepped back over to the microphone and opened the folded paper.

“Allison Argent.”

Stiles felt his heart rise into his throat. The boys turned their heads in unison, staring across the crowd to look at their friend. She didn’t seem too phased. She dusted down her pastel blue dress, lifted her head and walked proudly out of the rows. She made her way towards the stage. The cameras turned on her.

As always, she was beautiful. Her hair was braided into a crown around her head and a wave of long dark curls cascading down her back. The dark locks framed her glowing skin. Narrow eyebrows swept over the elegantly curved of her eyes. The curve of her nose was accentuated by her plump lips. She held her composure, something she picked up from her father, as she stepped up onstage and stood silently beside Lydia.

Lydia greeted her, engaging her in a polite conversation before turning and walking across the stage to the second glass bowl.

“And now, our male tribute.”

The whole of District Twelve froze as Lydia burrowed her painted nails into the second glass bowl. She wound her slender fingers around a folded paper slip and drew it out of the flurry of crackling papers. She stepped back in front of the microphone. She unfolded the slip and held it before herself. Her soft green eyes rolled over the typed name as she swallowed hard and read it out, her bright pink lips moving around the name.

“Scott McCall.”

Stiles couldn’t breathe. It felt as if something had slammed into him, like that time a few years ago when he fell out of a tree. He had hit his back hard enough that it knocked the air from his lungs and brought hot tears to his eyes. That’s what it felt like: the burning feeling of breathlessness that radiated from his chest. The warm air around him thinned, unbreathable. Hot tears burnt at his eyes, blurring his vision and streaking lights across the worlds around him.

He turned and looked at Scott.

Stiles’ lips quivered and he gasped, “No.”

Scott looked broken. The sparkle of his eye faded as he turned and walked down the aisle towards the peacekeepers.

The crowd was silent, stunned. The only sound was the echo of two broken wails: Melissa and Isaac.

Stiles turned his attention to Isaac who flailed about in the crowd, racing towards the aisle and falling into the arms of peacekeepers as he screamed and desperately reached out for Scott.

Tears streaked Scott’s golden cheeks as he tried to walk past the crying boy.

Lights sparked in his vision as air returned to Stiles’ lungs, hitting him hard enough that his ribs ached. The world around him began to spin and his stomach churned. His breathing was shallow and his hands were trembling.

“I volunteer!”

Silence fell over District Twelve, their heartbeats pounding like war drums at an execution as they turned to the voice. Jaws fell slack and eyes widened as the boy burst from the crowd and broke free of the peacekeepers hold.

No.

Not him.

It couldn’t have been him.

He was just a boy. A boy who had never picked a fight or shown hostility to anyone before in his life– except occasionally sassing a peacekeeper who tested or overstepped their boundaries. A boy who selflessly sacrificed food and resources for others who were no worse off than him. A boy who selflessly traded his name in at the Reaping every year for tesserae that would help his family live another year. A boy who was nothing more than 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone.

Stiles Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> celestialvoid-fanficton.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles stood among the silence.

Scott turned to look at him, his dark eyes wide with shock and swirling with fear. Stiles returned his stunned gaze with as much composure as he could muster, noticing how his friend’s lips were parted ever so slightly; ready to refuse and seal his own fate. Stiles shook his head, glaring at Scott. He could see the tears welling up in his friend’s dark eyes, his expression twisted with shock and confusion.

Stiles nodded, lowering his voice and speaking with finality. “I volunteer as tribute.”

He stepped forward towards the stage, stopping at Scott’s side and nodding towards Isaac – who had fallen to his knees and cried violently – and whispered, “He needs you.”

 Scott couldn’t speak, his throat had closed over as he fought back tears.

Stiles watched as Scott reluctantly stepped back towards the crowd, tears already falling from his eyes as he collected Isaac in his arms, holding the boy close and whispering to him as he cried. Stiles watched them for a second, his eyes falling to Isaac’s slender hands as he grabbed at Scott’s shirt, his grip so tight that his knuckles threatened to burst through the sheet of pale skin that covered them.

From behind them, among the stands of parents and gathering adults, he could hear Melissa’s cries and his father fighting against the peacekeepers who restrained him.

Stiles turned away. He couldn’t look at them.

Stiles – skinny, defenceless Stiles – stepped up onto the small podium, clenching his trembling hands into fists. He kept his eyes on Lydia, ignoring Allison’s gaze as he walked over to the presenter’s side.

“What’s your name?” Lydia asked, her voice soft and sweet.

“Stiles,” he replied, voice croaking with strain. He tried not to look at the crowd, at the faces of everyone who knew him, of those who wished they could protect him but knew they couldn’t. He tried desperately not to look at Scott, at the glistening tears that fell across his almond skin, or at Isaac who clung to Scott but cried for Stiles. He swallowed hard. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“That was a brave and noble sacrifice you just made, Stiles,” Lydia announced. “May I ask, why?”

“Because he’s my friend. He’s my brother.” He glanced up at Scott, tears stinging his eyes. “I’d do anything for him.”

John thrashed about in the arms of the peacekeepers, screaming for his son and fighting to break free.

“Is that your father?” Lydia asked.

“Yes,” Stiles replied weakly, his voice and heart breaking as he looked over at the worn man, slumped down over the arms of the peacekeepers and crying as Melissa tried to pull him back into her arms.

“Do you have something you want to say to him?” Lydia asked.

Stiles nodded, blinking back hot tears, ignoring the streaks in his vision and swearing to himself that he will not show weakness as he said, “I’ll be okay, Dad. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

Their presentation was brought to an end by the playing of the Capitol anthem. When the music finished, Allison and Stiles were guided into the Justice Building behind the stage. The crowd caught their attention with one final gesture; a three-fingered salute. The funeral salute of District Twelve. It meant thank you. It meant admiration. It meant goodbye to someone you love.

The two were ushered inside the large building and separated. They were guided into two of the small offices and told that they would each be given two minutes to say goodbye to their loved ones and anyone who came to bid them farewell.

The stained glass doors were drawn shut behind him, the hinges screeching and wooden panels rattling. Stiles felt his knees bow and his legs crumble beneath him, head spinning and body weak as he collapsed into the small, faded beige couch. He slumped back into the soft cushions and dropped his head into his hands, gasping for air. His eyes burnt with heavy tears and thick bile rose into his throat. He felt as if he had been gagged, clamping his hand over his mouth in an attempt to encourage himself to breathe through his nose and not hurl up what little food he had eaten. His stomach tensed and knotted, twisting and churning painfully as he whimpered against the palm of his hand. Fear boiled his blood as his panic attack set in.

He held his breath, his heartbeat drumming in his ears, pounding against his forehead and blood thumping through his veins. His lungs burnt and hot tears weighed down the tips of his dark eyelashes. The tears fell like crystals, shattering across the dust-covered floorboards.

His sobs were muffled by the palm of his hand, teardrops falling across the back of his hand and streaming through his fingers. He breathed deeply, blinking back the tears and rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

The doors rattled about on their aged hinges.

He sat upright in the chair.

Isaac nearly fell face first onto the rough wooden floor as he stumbled into the room and sprinted to Stiles’ side. He leapt into Stiles’ arms, nearly knocking him off the chair. He buried his face in the boy’s shoulder and cried. Stiles gently shushed him, patting down the mess of Isaac’s untameable golden curls and rocking him.

“It’s okay, Isaac,” Stiles assured him.

He looked over the boy’s shoulder at his best friend. Scott’s usually golden skin was flushed and pale, his dark eyes bloodshot and glistening with tears. He stood away from Stiles as if he was scared to come closer.

Stiles set Isaac down on his lap, holding the boy’s slender hand as he turned to face Scott.

“I’m sorry,” Scott muttered.

Stiles shook his head, glaring at Scott.

“It’s not your fault, man,” Stiles replied. He waited a moment, feeling words roll about in his mouth: a thousand things he needed to say, a million things he wished he could say if he had the time.

“It’ll be okay, Scott,” he whispered. “But you can’t phase out,” Stiles said firmly. “Everyone’s depending on you. You can hunt and you have the extra rations thanks to the tesserae, but you need to take care of your mum, my dad, Isaac _and_ Mr Argent too. Got it?”

Scott nodded, stepping forward to pull his friend into his arms. “This is my fault.”

“No it’s not. I volunteered.”

“You’re an idiot,” Scott muttered.

“I know,” Stiles whispered. He smiled at Scott. “Stay safe.”

The peacekeepers pushed open the doors and stepped into the small office.

Scott relinquished his hold on Stiles, failing to hold back his tears as he whispered, “Do your best to survive this.”

Stiles nodded, glancing down at Isaac.

Scott dropped his hand to the smaller boy’s shoulder and whispered, “Time to go.”

Isaac wound his arms around Stiles’ waist, hugging him tightly and screaming as Scott tried to pull him away. Stiles gave Isaac one last hug goodbye, holding the small boy close in his warm hold before lifting him up and handing him over to Scott.

Scott offered Stiles a soft smile that said it all, ignoring the boy as he flailed about and wailed.

Scott fought back tears as he walked him out of the room.

“Take care of them, Scott,” Stiles called after them. They left Stiles alone in the room, gone before he had a chance to whisper, “Bye.”

Stiles grimaced at the desperate, heart-breaking cry that echoed down the hall as Scott dragged Isaac away to say goodbye to Allison.

His next visitors were his father and Melissa. John practically fell atop of Stiles, holding the boy close as he cried. Hot tears splashed against the cotton of Stiles’ dress shirt, seeping into the rough fibres of the collar.

“You can’t go,” John sobbed.

“Dad-”

“No, it’s not okay,” his father interrupted. “You don’t have your pillow. You can’t go anywhere without your pillow.”

“Dad,” Stiles interjected before the old man worked himself into a frenzy. He looked his father in the eye, noticing just how the blue depths swirled with dark shadows. His age showed through and he seemed so weak. His voice broke a little as he whispered, “It’s okay. Really, it is.”

John cupped his son’s cheek, looking at him as if he was trying to memorise every inch of the boy’s face. As if he would never see him again.

Tears streamed down the old man’s cheeks as he whispered, “I love you, Stiles.”

“I love you too, dad.”

Melissa stepped forward, resting a hand on John shoulder. He sat back a little and let Melissa through. She shuffled forward to press a tender kiss to Stiles’ forehead, gently cupping his cheek with her free hand and looking deep into the shimmering depths of the boy’s chocolate-brown eyes. He could tell how grateful she was that he volunteered to save her son, but in a way she was losing another son.

Stiles smiled at her weakly. He never had to say anything to her, she understood.

The peacekeepers knocked at the door and stepped into the room, standing silently by the door with guns in their hands – a silent reminder that defiance would not end well.

Melissa pressed another kiss to Stiles’ forehead and whispered, “Goodbye, sweetie.”

“Bye,” Stiles replied.

Melissa rose to her feet, using the hand that rested on her best friend’s shoulder to gently urge John to step away from the boy. The man leant forward to hold his son one last time, kissing Stiles’ temple and gently stroking his son’s cheek as he leant back, tears streaking his face. He forced himself to step away from his son, falling into Melissa’s arms as she guided him towards the door.

The heavy doors groaned as they closed behind them, leaving Stiles to sit in the silence and the cold shadows of the room.

His heart had been shattered and fear had left him too weak to stand, but no matter how hard he tried to cry his eyes were too dry to form tears. His lip was quivering and his hands were trembling as he sat back in the small couch.

The doors rattled open again, the radiant glow of the open hallway lighting up the soft features of the girl in the doorway. Lydia Martin.

“Ready to go?” she asked, bored and harsh.

Stiles was stunned for a moment. She was so different when the cameras weren’t looking; cynical, self-centred and stern, as if she couldn’t care less about the two children she was about to escort to their deaths.

Stiles rose to his feet, dragging the soles of his shoes across the withered floorboards of the office as he stepped over to Lydia and joined Allison in the hallway. He glanced over his shoulder at the large double doors that lead out into the open area of the town centre. The bowing walls seemed to cave in behind them, arching and groaning like the tunnelling path of a forest in a nightmare. It meant one thing: there was no going back now.

The gut-wrenching broken wails of their loved ones echoed down the hall, sending shivers down his spine and tying his gut in knots as he fought back tears.

That was a sound Stiles was never going to forget.

Allison took his hand in hers, gentle squeezing it as they were escorted to the station and ushered aboard the Tribute Train. They trailed after Lydia as she strutted through the carriages, effortlessly striding across the lengths of carpet atop her high heels.

The train took off smoothly, quickly accelerating to its top speed and gliding across the rails at 250 miles an hour, but staying stable and moving smoothly.

“The ride to the Capitol will take a day,” Lydia mused, elegantly weaving her way through the furniture and decorations. “When we reach our destination you will be taken directly to the Remake Centre where you will be cleaned, preened and presented to your stylist to whom you _will_ give your full cooperation to as they prepare you for the Opening Ceremony.”

Peter swanned into the room, gracefully gliding past the three teenagers as if they didn’t exist.

“Give the kids a break, Lydia,” he growled, stepping over to the small silver tray of assorted alcoholic beverages by the far wall. He ignored Lydia’s vicious glare as he collected the glistening crystal decanter and poured some of the golden liquor into a glass, sipping it as he moved into the next carriage.

Lydia spun on her heels, her bright green eyes rolling over Allison and Stiles, the emerald depths full of judgment and disdain. “You must be hungry.”

She waved her lean fingers and motioned for the two of them to follow her into the next cart. A large dining table sat in the middle of the room, the glass table top adorned by gleaming ceramic plates with silver patterns along the edges. The centre of the table held the display of a large banquet; stews, roasts, pasta, various finger-foods, fresh fruits and vegetables, juices, crystal-like clear water in large decanters, and sweet delicacies.

Peter had already made himself comfortable, shovelling slices of juicy steak and large spoonfuls of pasta and saucy meat onto his plate.

Allison and Stiles slowly crept towards the table, sitting down atop the plush cushions of the chairs and waiting patiently.

The rich scents filled their noses, making their mouths salivate and their stomachs growl. It struck Stiles that he hadn’t eaten that morning.

Peter and Lydia looked at them in confusion.

“You can eat,” Lydia encouraged.

Stiles and Allison cautiously reached forward, setting small spoonfuls of the delicious food down on their plates; thin slivers of succulent meat, soups that had some flavour, and fresh bread rolls with soft, warm, white flesh.

They sat back in their chairs, silently prodding at their food with their small silver forks.

“At least these ones know how to use cutlery,” Lydia muttered. “Last year’s tributes were savages, they just tore into the food with their grimy bear hands.”

“Lydia,” Allison started softly, catching the flamboyant girl’s attentions. “Please stop talking.”

Peter failed to smother a burst of laughter as Lydia’s expression warped into shock.

“We’ve just been torn away from our families, friends, and loved ones,” Allison continued, blunt and without hesitation. “We’ve been taken from our homes and now we face certain death all for the sake of the Capitol’s pleasure. For some of us, it’s the first time we’ve ever been away from our families, which takes a lot of strength considering they’ve all we’ve got and we’re all they had. As for the previous tributes, some children in our District have never had anything more than mouldy bread to eat. You have no right to judge us by your standards of living. So, please, show the slightest bit of consideration, empathy and decency, and just sit there quietly.”

Stiles tried to breathe deeply, bowing his head in hopes that the inky black shadows would hide his tears. But Allison seemed to notice the warm droplets that splashed against the smooth skin on the back of his hand, another chiming quietly as it struck the edge of his china plate. She reached across the small space that divided them, setting her small hand atop his and stroking his soft, pale skin with the ball of her calloused thumb.

“You don’t stand a chance, boy,” Peter growled from the other side of the table. “You’re crying already.”

Without missing a beat, Allison grabbed her knife and slammed it between the man’s fingers. He looked up at her, his horrified wide eyes meeting her cold glare.

“You, on the other hand,” Peter whispered, pulling the knife out of the table and ignoring Lydia’s hysterical cries. “You might have a chance.”

“You can shut up too,” Allison hissed. “Just because you came out of the Games alive, doesn’t mean you have an excuse for sitting back and watching innocent children being sent to their deaths. You’re a sociopathic recluse and you have no right to take your emotional problems out on us.”

“Here’s the thing, princess,” Peter spat viciously, leaning across the table towards her. “Year after year, I see little brats like him board this train. I watch as they get overjoyed and blind-sighted by all that the Capitol has to offer. I watch them get dolled up and paraded about through the Capitol. I watch as they begin to settle into a false sense of security, up until the moment they are sent into the arena, where they die instantly. Why? Because they’re weak.”

Stiles grabbed his glass and hurled it across the table.

Peter – killer instincts still intact – dodged to the side.

Lydia screamed as the crystal glass shattered against the wall of the carriage, glittering shards of glass and crystal-like droplets of water raining around Peter.

Stiles rose from his seat and stormed into the final carriage, leaving the sounds of a furious Peter and a distraught Lydia - - bickering about who started the fight - - behind him.

The door slid shut behind him, hissing as the pistons slid it into place and muffled the sound of the blazing row in the other carriage.

He dragged his feet over to the large couch that ran along the walls of the carriage and slumped down among the soft cushions, pulling his knees up to his chest. He pressed his forehead against his knobbly kneecaps. He pressed his face into his shirt, breathing deeply. The rough cotton scratched at his soft skin, but he didn’t care, it smelt of home. It smelt of his father’s musky scent and the faintest trace of sweat that lingered on the boys’ skin. It smelt of the sweet perfume that Melissa had made for herself and Allison; boiled flowers that the boys had foraged from the fields outside the township and mixed with crushed strawberries and forest berries. It smelt of the soap that clung to his skin, masking the bitter scent of the coal mines.

Peter was right; Stiles didn’t stand a chance. He had no muscle on him and he couldn’t wield a weapon. He didn’t have the confidence to stand up and fight. And he probably just screwed himself over by hurling a glass at his mentor’s face.

The door hissed as it opened.

“Lydia, I’m sorry,” Stiles mumbled into his knees, his voice muffled by the baggy fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t be,” Allison whispered.

Stiles peered out from beneath his shirt, his dark eyes watching Allison as she sat down next to him and dropped her head to his shoulder.

“You left before the best part,” She whispered. “Lydia’s screaming at him right now and he’s cowering like a puppy. I’m not sure whether it was because you threw a glass at him or because of Lydia, but I’m pretty sure Peter shit himself.”

“The asshole deserved it,” Stiles muttered.

Allison chuckled breathlessly.

Stiles slowly emerged, uncurling his legs and sitting back against the pale grey cushions.

Allison offered him a small bread roll she had snuck out of the dining room. He took it with a weak but genuine smile, slowly nibbling at the soft white flesh.

“Allison,” Stiles started, voice soft but firm. “Find a bow. Make one if you have to. Just get your hands on one and hunt. It’s what you do best.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

Stiles sighed. “I haven’t got the slightest idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> celestialvoid-fanficton.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles stood in the centre of the room, naked and exposed.

The Remake Centre was cold and sterile; the pale grey walls and white linoleum made him feel out of place. He was used to dirt and coal, not cleanliness. It made him feel uneasy.

His skin had been scrubbed red raw – again – and every grain of dirt, dust and coal had been removed from his pores. He had been plucked and groomed. They had trimmed his hair and filed down his nails – although his habit of biting them had already taken care of that. And when they were done they had left him there, cold and alone, to wait for his stylist.

The large door hissed open, granting access to a middle-aged man.

Stiles was taken aback by the man’s appearance. Unlike the other residents of the Capitol who had disturbingly fluorescent coloured skin, candy-coloured clothes with obscene designs, glittering tattoos and unnatural body modifications, this man seemed _human_. His appearances wasn’t artificially enhanced or modified in any way, except for a few piercings in his ear and the slightest tint of golden eyeliner.

His round features were kind, his dark skin glowing in the bright light. His chin was covered in neatly groomed facial hair; a light moustache and a goatee. His warm chocolate eyes looked at Stiles with unmistakable sympathy.

“I’m Deaton,” he introduced himself, voice soft with a slight accent – not the obnoxious nasal Capitol accent, but something more natural. Human. “You must be Stiles.”

The boy nodded.

“How are you, Stiles?” Deaton asked.

“Does it really matter?” Stiles countered, voice croaking.

“It does to me.” Deaton smiled at him. “It takes courage to do what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Stiles said, a little surprised at the man’s compliment.

“You volunteered,” Deaton reminded him. “It took courage to do that, and even more to stand atop that stage and comfort your father.”

“I’m just used to lying to him,” Stiles objected. “I’m used to telling everyone that I’ll be okay… that everything will be fine.”

“I still think you’re brave,” Deaton said reassuringly, his voice gentle. He seemed to notice how Stiles shifted nervously from foot to foot. “How about we get ready for the Opening Ceremony?”

“As long as you’re not planning to send me out butt naked and smeared in coal like last year’s tributes.”

Deaton smiled softly and chuckled under his breath. “No, I’m not going to do that to you. In fact we were thinking of something quite different. Our inspiration isn’t the coal or the ‘raw material’ as the previous years have done, but rather what you do to coal. You burn it. So, tell me, Stiles, are you afraid of fire?”

 

Hours later, Stiles stood in the bay of the chariots beneath the Tribute Centre dressed in a gleaming white dress suit, the rippling fabric of his long coat tails trailing in ribbons far behind him. His undershirt was black with a faint grey trim. It seemed to fit well enough, making his slender, undernourished body seem full and healthy. His moonlight-pale skin seemed to hold some colour in comparison to the bleached white suit.

He stepped up into the black chariot, Deaton circling around him to fix up small details.

The bay was full of other tributes and stylists that bustled about the children, fixing their designer outfits and helping them move about. They all stood around or atop the sleek black chariots, wandering eyes sizing each other up.

Stiles glanced ahead at the carriages, watching as people shuffled about in a flurry of fabric and limbs, readying themselves.

His eyes fell upon the male tribute from District Two. He wore nothing more than a pair of pants. His bare chest looked as if it had been sculpted from marble, the toned muscles and golden skin were decorated with sparking glitter. Glistening silver gems and jagged flakes of slate were sewn into chains and wound around his neck.

If Stiles wasn’t utterly terrified, he would have been drooling over the half-naked teen.

His eyes were locked onto Stiles, his narrowed glare keenly watching the boy like a predator observing their prey.

Before Stiles could think about it Allison joined him, dressed in an exquisite white gown. The corset was made of rippling fabric that was pinched and pulled together, dipping down to her cleavage and hugging the curves of her elegant figure. The fabric billowed out from her waist, the rippling soft cotton dip dyed orange around the hem. Her hair had been tidied, still fastened in a billowing wave of dark hair that coursed over her shoulders, with a thin braided crown circling her head – now decorated with small ruby gems. A light covering of makeup was spread across her face – she was beautiful enough not to need it; her cheeks were naturally pink and her skin was translucent when clean. Her dark eyes were shadowed by a brush of colour, eyeliner framing them beautifully. Her lips were coloured with a touch of red. She still wore her necklace – a family heirloom that she wore every day and she refused to leave without – but instead of sitting in the curve of her collar bone, the thick black leather cord had been coiled around her wrist, the small pendant tapping the back of her hand.

“Hey, beautiful,” Stiles called to her.

She smiled and blushed. Her dark chocolate eyes rolled over him. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

Stiles smiled in return, offering a hand to help her up into the carriage. Once standing beside Stiles, she seemed reluctant to let go of his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, a silent message that he didn’t want to let go either. She sighed, tightening her grip on his hand slightly.

Allison’s stylist rushed about, tugging out the trail of her dress and ordering the frills of her skirt. Deaton rested a hand on her shoulder, assuring her that it looked fine. He turned his attention to the two teens.

“Your clothes are lined with an artificial flame. When the chariot makes it out and you’re half-way to the City Circle, press this button.” Deaton offered the small remote to the two. Stiles nodded and Allison took it – she was better with timing – and set it down among the vines of white roses that were coiled around the rail of their chariot as Deaton continued, “I need to clarify that the fire is fake. It will not harm you in any way.”

Lydia skipped over to their side. Her jaw fell slack, bright green eyes glittering as she looked at them.

“You two look marvellous,” she chirped. For a second Allison and Stiles considered ignoring her and turning away, but there was something in her voice that sounded as though it was a genuine compliment.

“Thank you,” they whispered.

Stiles caught Deaton and Lydia looking down at their joined hands and for a second he feared they were going to tell the two to let go, but instead Deaton looked the boy in the eye and smiled, a glimmer of pride flickering through his eyes.

“Okay, get ready to go,” Deaton instructed, quickly checking them over one last time.

Lydia offered a soft smile and she offered some final words of wisdom. “Chins up, smiles on, and don’t forget to wave.”

The chariot lurched forward as the horses trotted towards the opening of the bay. The two of them blinked heavily as they were towed into the glaring light of the bright city.

Allison took to it naturally, flashing her gorgeous pearly white smile and waving to individuals in the crowd as if they were old friends.

Stiles, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. He tried to breathe easy, straining the muscles in his neck in order to hold his head upright. His heartbeat was drumming in his ears, muffling but not quite drowning out the roaring screams of the crowd. He raised his arm to wave, his hand trembling as he did.

Allison must have sensed the fear that radiated off of Stiles because she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He glanced at her, his fear subsiding when he saw her calm smile.

The chariot rattled on down the street.

“Ready?” Allison asked.

Stiles nodded at her and she pressed the button. There was a roaring gush of wind as the crowd erupted in gasps of shock and screams of joy.

The vibrant flames glittered around him, golden sparks flittering through the air.

One thing Deaton failed to mention was the fact that the chemical reactions that ignited the flames were also designed to change the colours of the clothes. Allison’s dress darkened, the orange hem now black, fading to grey as it trailed up to her white corset. Stiles’ suit, however, was completely overcome with black.

She rose her eyebrows at him playfully and he took the hint, lifting their joined hands up into the air.

The crowd roared and the cameras turned to them, their carriage – their faces – appearing on every screen around them as the Ceremony was broadcasted live across the entirety of Beacon Hills.

The chariots slowed as they reached the City Circle, circling around the open space as they were presented to the president, Deucalion, who looked upon them with his usual judgmental gaze and his fake smile.

As the clattering wheels of the chariot pulled to a halt, Stiles and Allison lowered their hands. Stiles felt his knees tremble. He clung to Allison, scared that if he let go he would topple right off the back of the chariot.

Deucalion stepped up to the microphone and spoke. “Hello and welcome to the Opening Ceremony of the seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games!” His voice rang out through the stands. “Let us welcome our tributes.”

The crowd applauded as he called out every District. When he called out “District Twelve”, the crowd roared with cheers, the noise was deafening as it rose like a tidal wave and crashed over them.

Once the president had finished with his formalities, the chariots turned and drove on to the Training Centre. Once under shelter and away from prying eyes, Stiles stepped – or, more accurately, toppled – off of the chariot. He took a second to regain his balance and catch his breath before he turned and helped Allison step down to the polished concrete. As soon as her soft slippers touched the ground and she was steady on her own two feet, Stiles turned to walk away and collapsed to the ground. He sunk to his knees, heaving in shaky breaths. He braced his weight on his hand, blood rushing to his head as bile rose into his throat. A cold sweat rolled over him, making him quiver as the icy breeze clawed at his spine.

Allison dropped to her knees by his side, her skirt billowing about around her. She spoke softly, gently patting his back as she coaxed him through the unrelenting onset panic attack.

Around him, he could hear the quiet chatter of the other tributes, some whispering in worry and others laughing at the sight.

“Breathe, kid,” came another voice: calm, collected and holding a tone that hinted at concern. Peter.

Stiles looked up, shocked by how caring he seemed in that moment.

“You two did great,” Peter said softly. “Now, let’s get you upstairs and settled into bed.”

Peter’s strong hands helped Stiles to his feet, letting the slender boy collapse against him. Allison collected her skirt in one hand and trailed after Peter, weakly holding onto Stiles’ fingertips with her free hand as Peter led them towards the elevator.

The man leant forward and pressed the button, waiting for the elevator doors to slide open before escorting the two inside, keeping a steady hand between the Stiles’ shoulder blades.

It didn’t really put Stiles at ease. He had seen Peter in the Games and knew without a doubt that those hands could kill. Peter was merciless, vicious and manipulative, and it didn’t help that he had thrown a glass at this psychopathic man’s head merely hours ago. And now he had to trust the man to carry him.

The elevator whirred as it slowed to a stop. The doors opened to the penthouse suite, a well-furnished level that was decorated in varying shades of white, silver and grey.

Peter guided Stiles into the lounge room area, setting him down on the thick cushions of the couch that was fitted as a border around the lowered floor. Peter helped him stripped off the jacket, trying to wrestle with the boy’s limp arms before leaving him to his own devices when it came to kicking off his shoes.

Stiles slumped back against the cushions.

Allison scurried to her room, changing into a pale blue tee-shirt and a modest-length black skirt. The fabric draped around her pale knees, billowing slightly as she scurried across the room to collect a bowl of strawberries and bounced onto the couch. He tucked her legs beneath herself and curled up beside Stiles, offering him the bowl of lush fruit.

He smiled weakly as he plucked a plump red strawberry from the bowl.

In District Twelve, strawberries were a delicacy that they rarely had, but the sugary sweetness usually helped Stiles bounce back from panic attacks or nausea. Whenever they were in season, Stiles and Scott could find them in the forest beyond the boundaries of District Twelve. And if they were lucky, they would carry home as many as they could carry for Stiles and Isaac to devour.

Allison dropped her head to Stiles’ shoulder, pressing a sweet strawberry to her lips.

Her hair lay loose about her face. The sections of hair that had been tightly braided were now crinkled, wavy and messy. The little red beaded pins were gone and she looked like her normal self again.

The screen on the wall lit up as the Capitol anthem blared through the speakers. Stiles draped his arm around Allison’s shoulder and held her close as they settled in to watch the compulsory viewing of the Games broadcast.

Lydia stopped pacing the room and blabbering about how marvellous they looked in order to perch herself on the edge of the couch. Peter leant forward, resting his forearms on the cushions behind the teens.

The presenters – as inhuman as they looked – did not waste any time with needless banter, instead choosing to go straight into the reruns of the Reaping Ceremonies and the presentation of the tributes.

Stiles felt numb as he watched the faces appear on the screen, his stomach churning as he sank back into the unbelievably soft cushions.

Bright blue letters rolled across the bottom of the screen.

District 1.

The female tribute was first. A volunteer, as usual.

Her name was Kali and she looked like she would kill without hesitation. Her teeth and nails had been filed to sharp points and seemed to glow against her chocolate-brown skin. Her long hair billowed down her back, streaked by gold and orange. She had a slender figure but she had enough muscle on her that she looked like she could hold her own in a fight, Career or not.

Her fellow tribute, Ennis, was the complete opposite of her; tall, bulky, strongly built, a square jaw and cold clear eyes. His hair had been shaved off. Unlike Kali, he didn’t have modified body parts but his bulging biceps were threatening enough. Also like Kali, he had volunteered.

The screen lit up with the bright blue lettering again.

District 2.

The female tribute volunteered as soon as the presenter had offered.

Kate Argent was her name. And it didn’t take much to know she was a killer.

She was a beautiful young lady, bridging seventeen or eighteen, with a golden wave of curls that cascaded down her back, bouncing off her translucent skin as she pranced up onstage and stood next to the presenter. Her smile was beautiful; pearly white teeth gleaming and her sapphire blue eyes sparkling. But there was a cynical twist to it – a glint of pride and confidence that gave away the fact that she was a Career; a trained hunter.

The next tribute was just as gorgeous and just as threatening.

His name was Derek Hale.

He was about the same age as Kate and had short black hair and a shadow of a beard dusting his firm jaw. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, his sparkling irises shifting colour in the light; from hazel to pale aventurine, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused, darkened by the lingering shadows beneath them. He was calm and composed and focused, staring straight down the camera with a confidence that fit him so well.

He was obviously built for fighting, with broad shoulders and firm biceps pressing against the sleeves of his shirt, the V-neck dipping down over his beige skin.

“I thought they chose children as tributes, not gods,” Stiles mused, jaw slack. He gestured towards the screen of the television. “What chance do I stand against someone like that?”

Allison gently nudged him.

After that Stiles zoned out, occasionally taking note of some of the other tributes.

The boy from District Three, Jackson Whittemore, had also volunteered. He looked like Ennis; strong built and confident. However, he was younger than Ennis, with short-cropped chestnut hair and a cynical snarl.

The girl from District Five – Kira Yukimura – looked so young and terrified, walking up on stage on her own while no-one dared volunteer for her. Her rounded features showed her Asian heritage – a beautiful mix of Japanese and Korean that her ancestors had passed on to her. She only just made the age barrier, looking to be twelve or thirteen years old. Her parents were heard screaming for her, only to be silenced by the peacekeepers.

“She doesn’t stand a chance,” Peter said, seemingly amused.

“Shut up,” everyone growled in unison.

Eventually it was their turn.

‘District 12’ lit up the screen.

Stiles turned his head into the mess of Allison’s wavy hair, muttering, “I can’t watch this.”

Allison struggled through it, her breath uneasy and body trembling as she held back tears, hearing the voices and seeing the faces of their loved ones; those they had left behind.

When it was all over he pulled her close, letting her hide her face in his shoulder as the tears splashed against his silk shirt.

Next was the rerun of the Opening Ceremony, but they couldn’t have cared less.

They sat in each other’s arms, sniffing back tears and waiting for it all to end.

Stiles sighed with relief as the compulsory viewing finished and the bright lights of the screen faded.

“Tomorrow you start training,” Peter said after a moment of silence. “You’ll head down to the underground gym in the morning. Refine your skills and try to learn a couple of new things. You two have made an impression already, and if you can think of something that will amaze the Gamemakers in order to give you a high training score, then good. That’ll help you get sponsors. And trust me, in the Games, you’ll need them.” He sighed. “You have two days to train before you’re presented to them, and then the day after than you’re up for interviews. So you can make this decision now or later; would you like to train separately or together?”

Stiles and Allison exchanged looks. Was there any question? They both turned to Peter and replied in unison, “Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who can't quite envision it, Allison's Opening Ceremony dress is inspired by this (a Hunger Games inspired wedding dress): https://quirkybrideblog.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/hunger-games-inspired-wedding-amanda-douglas-events-2.jpg
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos, comments and encouragement, they really do help :)
> 
> celestialvoid-fanficton.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles sat in the frame of the large bay window, looking out across the glowing lights of the Capitol. He rested his head back against the cool metal, pulling the baggy fabric of his jacket around his slender body.

“Can’t sleep?”

Allison’s soft voice startled him. He jolted upright and span around to look at her.

“Sorry,” she whispered as she sat across from him in the bay window.

She was dressed like him, in a loose-fitting jacket, shirt and pants. Her bare feet peeked out from beneath the wide cuffs. Her necklace was back in its usual place, the cord wound her neck and the pendant hanging loosely against her collarbone. Her long, dark curls had been pulled back into a ponytail, a couple of loose strands curling around her face and falling across her forehead.

“I’m not used to sleeping in a room all by myself,” Stiles admitted. “It’s too quiet.”

“Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?” Allison asked.

Stiles shook his head.

“That’s Scott’s place,” he jested.

Allison nudged him with her foot, giggling. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself and settled back against the frame, mirroring Stiles. “Fine, we’ll stack some blankets and pillows on the floor and we’ll have a sleepover.”

Stiles smiled gratefully, but his smile soon dropped and the lights in his eyes dimmed.

“I don’t want to change, Allison,” Stiles muttered. “I don’t want to end up like the others: I don’t want to be pushed to the point where I snap and become a murderer. I don’t want my dad to see that.”

“You’ve been through so much, Stiles, it’s going to take a lot more than the Games to ever change you,” Allison assured him.

Stiles sighed. “This is going to be hell.”

“Remember what your mum used to say, ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going’. We’re just going to have to work through this and survive as long as we can.”

“That’s all we do, isn’t it?” Stiles whispered. “It’s all we’ve ever done: survive. We’ve survived drought and famine in Twelve. We’ve survived in the forest and through every collapsed mine. We survived every year our names weren’t picked. We survived losing our mothers.”

They fell silent for a moment, lost in their memories.

Stiles’ mother died when he was young; she was mentally ill – disturbed by night terrors and prone to violent bursts of anger in which she’s turn against those she loved – and they didn’t have the right medical resources for her in District Twelve. John and Melissa had done everything they could to keep her alive and at peace, but it wasn’t enough. Stiles had been scared of her - - especially because she always turned on him, screaming that he was trying to kill her and striking him in ‘self-defence’ - - but he had been by her side, holding her hand, while she died.

Allison’s mother was prone to fits of rage and self-harm. At least once a week Chris brought Victoria in to see Melissa and have her various cuts tended to. Rumours had spread around Twelve that Chris had been the one who had caused them, but that wasn’t true. However no-one believed the children when they spoke up against it. They had seen her take the knife to her wrists or shatter glasses and plates against walls, completely emotionless and distanced from herself as she pulled shards from her skin and let thick ruby-red droplets of blood shatter against the dust-and-coal-covered floorboards. Victoria had killed herself a few years ago. Chris had held her while she bled out, unable to get her help in time. Allison never got to say goodbye.

They weren’t perfect, but they were their mothers.

“And now the Games,” Stiles continued. “All we ever do is survive.”

“Then we will survive this,” Allison replied, her voice firm as if to promise him so. She looked out across the glowing city. “Stiles… If I die in the arena and you live, I want you to take my necklace and give it to my father. If you don’t make it out and I die before you, then I’d rather you have it.”

“I don’t think there’s any possibility of me coming out of that arena alive, and I highly doubt you will die before me… I hope you don’t die. You deserve better than this.”

“Stiles, promise me,” she begged.

Stiles looked into her dark eyes, watching as her tears sparkled with the reflected lights of the Capitol. He sighed.

“I promise.”

Allison seemed to relax a little more after that, her shoulders sinking as if she had finally been relieved of an indescribable burden.

“Can you promise me something?” Stiles asked.

“Anything.”

“If you come out as the victor, please, make sure my dad is okay. Make sure he doesn’t do anything…. Drastic.”

Allison dropped her head. She knew exactly what he meant.

“I promise,” she whispered.

After a moment of silence Allison extended her hand.

“Come on,” she encouraged, lifting the boy to his feet and leading him back towards their dorms. Their footsteps patted across the smooth floors as they crept into her room and pulled the blankets off of the bed. Stiles stood at the foot of the bed, catching the pillows that Allison tossed his way. He set them on the ground and settled in.

It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t home. But the sound of Allison’s soft, peaceful breaths soon lulled him to sleep.

 

They stepped into the gym, halting in the doorway as they surveyed the contained area.

Thick grey walls surrounded them. The space was divided into several areas; training stations set up to teach tributes how to build weapons, set snares, lures and traps, or to teach tributes about the different kinds of plants, edible herbs and poisonous berries. Thick, padded mats were set up in the centre of the room for sparring practice. On the far wall there were racks of weapons: maces, swords, daggers, poles, axes, and bows. All the weapons were fake – in order to make sure that none of the tributes were harmed before the Games – and gleaming silver.

“Where do you want to start?” Allison asked Stiles.

“We already know about plants and snares,” he muttered, looking around the room. “Target practice?”

“Sure. I’ll go first, shall I?” Allison whispered.

Stiles nodded and bowed curtly as she walked past him.

She stepped over to the far wall and collected a longbow and a quiver of arrows. She shouldered the quiver, fastening the strap in place before she stepped up onto the small podium in the simulation room.

The simulation began. Bright orange figures hurled themselves at Allison. She quickly notched the arrows and let them fly, shattering the simulated figures.

Stiles watched as her face strained, her body moving by habit as to distract herself from the human-like silhouettes that sprinted across the room.

An elusive target sprinted across the higher areas, hiding behind pillars. Allison notched the arrow and rose her bow, aiming at the bright glimmer behind the pole.

She let out a breath, steadying herself as she let it fly.

The arrow tore through the figure, giving her enough time to turn around and smack another figure in the face with the length of the bow. The figure stumbled, giving her just enough time to grab an arrow and using it as she would a knife. She moved about in a flurry of elegant movements, dodging blows before lodging the arrowhead in the simulation’s throat. The figure shattered, glittering orange cubes tumbling over her hand.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, notching the arrow and grounding her feet. She stared down the end of the simulation hall.

One final attacker.

It burst into existence, sprinting towards her faster than humanly possible.

She let the arrow fly, but the simulation jumped out of its arcing path. It leapt into the air.

Allison held her breath, bending backwards as she tried to avoid the figure and grab the end of an arrow.

She brought it to the bow string and fired a lethal shot.

Glowing orange splatter rained over her as the simulation faded upon completion.

She turned at the sound of clapping, blushing slightly at the sight of Stiles and half of the tributes applauding her.

She curtseyed, giggling as she skipped over to Stiles’ side. She set the bow back up on the wall and turned to her friend.

“Your turn.”

Stiles shook his head. “No way.”

“Come on. You might as well try.”

“I’ll only humiliate myself,” Stiles muttered.

“And then they’ll underestimate you in the arena,” Allison countered.

Stiles opened his mouth to retort but Allison’s glare silenced him.

“Fine,” Stiles huffed in defeat, turning to face the wall of weapons. He paced along the brightly lit selection. He couldn’t trust himself with precision weapons like throwing knives or a crossbow. He didn’t have enough strength or agility to wield an axe or a sword. An aluminium bat, maybe. But there wasn’t one available, so the spear would have to do.

He picked it up off the small hooks on the wall and tested it. It was a decent weight, straining the tendons in his wrists as he held it in front of him, moving his grip up the shaft in order to find a centre of balance. A blunt, cone-like spear head was attached to the end, for distance attacks – which he hoped he wouldn’t have to use.

“I hate you,” he growled under his breath as he passed Allison. She chuckled in response, slouching against the large pillar that framed the door in order to enjoy the show.

Stiles stepped up onto the podium, the simulation altering and resetting.

He tried the best he could to ignore the lingering watchful gazes of the other tributes.

It began.

Orange figures charged towards him. He span the pole about, disarming the near figures and knocking them to the ground, shattering them across the smooth tiles. Others charged in lines. He held the pole out in front of him and shoved it forward, skewering them. He pulled the pole back and shattered them, feeling his stomach twist and churn as pixilated orange chunks drizzled over his limbs, burning his skin with an icy touch.

A stealthy figure sprinted across the elevated level, firing rounds of arrows towards him – which he did surprisingly well to dodge.

This was his chance.

Stiles adjusted his grip on the pole and hurled it at the glowing figure. It lodged between their shoulder blades, making them arch their back and topple over the edge of the balcony.

Stiles leapt off the motion pad, grabbing the pole and yanking it from the ‘dead’ figure. He span around in time to disarm an approaching figure. They stumbled slightly and Stiles swung again. The blood orange cubes that made their head shattered and bright orange pixels rained over him.

He stood still for a second, waiting for the pixels to fade and the simulation to end.

He turned to see the faces of a dozen stunned tributes.

Allison’s expression was a mix between shock and pride.

One by one, they started to applaud. The noise building until the gym was filled with the roaring thunder of their claps.

Stiles scurried back to the wall, setting the pole back on the hooks before racing off to one of the workbenches.

“Want some company?” Allison asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“Don’t you think you’ve embarrassed me enough for one day?” Stiles hissed under his breath.

“What are you talking about? You did great.”

“They won’t underestimate me now, will they?” Stiles whispered.

Allison opened her mouth to reply, but her words fell short of her lips.

Stiles sat in silence, slowly building a small snare – Allison and Scott were better at making them than he was, and it was thanks to them that they ate most nights.

“Okay, fine. I’ll be around if you need me.” She pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head and walked away.

Stiles glanced up from what he was doing, watching as she swiftly moved between stations, talking to some of the nicer tributes before sitting down beside District Two’s male tribute, Derek Hale, who seemed to be struggling to fix a small piece of flint to the length of an arrow shaft. Allison smiled that beautiful, friendly smile that can shatter any man’s defences and held the pieces together, talking quietly to Derek as he finished tying the arrow.

Derek said something to her, gaining a more genuine smile. They both looked over their shoulders at Stiles.

The boy’s heart skipped a beat and he nearly choked on his yelp as he hurriedly dropped his head and averted their eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> celestialvoid-fanficton.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

They sat outside the assessment room in silence. Stiles gently tapped the toe of his padded boot against the polished linoleum.

One by one, the crowd of tributes around them had slowly diminished until finally it was District Twelve’s turn.

The emotionless voice flooded the speakers and filled the room.

“District Twelve. Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles inhaled deeply, his hands already beginning to tremble and his knees wobbling as he rose to his feet.

Allison’s delicate hand gently patted his sleeve. She smiled up at him and whispered, “Knock ‘em dead.”

Stiles nodded and stiffly made his way over to the door, swallowing hard against his dry throat and moving slowly in fear of collapsing.

He stepped into the large gym. Like the training area it had a variety of weapons to choose from, task benches and targets which covered the walls. However, unlike the underground gym they had trained in, this room had a booth set back in the far wall, up high enough that the Gamemakers could look down their noses at the tributes and so that said tributes couldn’t reach them. And that was how they lived: in blissful ignorance, sipping alcohol, falling atop each other and dining on the large feast set out before them in the centre of their room luxurious room.

They were drunk, Stiles could smell it from the gym floor. He screwed up his face and opted to ignore them, stepping over to the weapons rack and lifting the long pole off of the gleaming hooks. He stepped back into the centre of the room and cleared his throat, his strained voice tearing at his throat as he tried to speak as clearly as he could.

“Stiles Stilinski for assessment.”

One of the Gamemakers waved his hand at the boy as if to tell him to continue, but none turned to look at him.

The room didn’t have holographic targets. In their place were large white dolls, but their solid build meant that Stiles would actually have to hit them with a decent amount of force in order to ‘kill’ them.

He drew in a deep breath and began. He span the pole over the back of his hand, twisting it around his narrow body and building up enough force to slash one of the models in two.

The pieces clattered to the ground.

He glanced up at the booth to see whether his actions had gone noticed, or if they had at least noticed the noise.

Nothing.

Stiles adjusted his grip on his staff, feeling his jaw tighten as he turned back to his targets and skewered another mannequin. He hurled it into an opposing figure and span back around, swinging the pole with enough force to decapitate the target.

The disfigured mannequins toppled to the ground, their thick plastic-plated bodies rattling as they rolled across the polished concrete floor.

Stiles exhaled and straightened his back. He turned to look at the assessors, his radiant smile falling when he realised no-one had been watching. Instead of paying attention to his performance – as was their job – they were enthralled by the large, glossy suckling pig which had been brought in by an Avox.

Stiles felt his blood boil in his veins. He tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear, his white knuckles strained against his pale skin. He locked his jaw, hot breaths huffing through his nostrils. His eye heated up with tears of fury.

He adjusted his grip on the spear and hurled it forward.

The tip of the spear tore through the glazed flesh of the roasted pig, shoving the swine off the table and pinning the animal to the far wall.

Wide, panicked eyes looked down at Stiles who returned their gazes with a composed glare. He dipped his back in a small bow.

“Thank you for your consideration,” he said before turning to leave the room.

 

“Stiles,” Lydia called, stepping down onto the lowered lounge room area so that she could look down at him. Her voice as strained and slow as if she was trying her hardest to stop herself from tearing out his throat in a bloody outburst of rage. “What did you do?”

“I threw a spear at the Gamemakers,” Stiles muttered.

“You did what?” Allison and Peter gasped in unison, the man’s voice failing to smother his amusement.

“I didn’t hit anyone,” Stiles cried in his defence.

Allison breathed a sigh of relief. Peter, however, almost seemed disappointed.

“They weren’t paying attention. I got mad.” Stiles looked up at Lydia’s stunned face. “I’m sorry.”

“Consider yourself lucky you’re going into the Games. They can’t file charges against you or have you executed because that would require them growing some balls and swallowing their pride to explain what happened, which would also breach the confidentiality agreement during the process of the Hunger Games,” Lydia explained, she seemed a little relieved; her fury dwindled but it was still there.

Before Stiles had the chance to apologise again, the compulsory broadcast began. The presenter went about their usual spiel of terrible humour and reviewing the tributes – their actions at the Reaping, their outfits from the Opening Ceremonies, comments about their Districts, blah blah blah – before getting to business and reading out the assessment scores.

Ennis and Kali from District One had both scored 10, which was an exceptionally high score and one expected of the Careers. District Two’s tributes – Kate and Derek – both scored 9s – again, expected of a Career. Jackson Whittemore from District Three scored a 7, leaving Stiles to wonder what his skills were; brute strength and intimidation were usually good in the Games, but they didn’t help convince the Gamemakers of your ability to survive, which would leave you with a low score. The sweet little girl from District Five, Kira, scored a 7 too. Other tributes scored 5s and 6s, with the occasional tribute scoring 3.

The scores meant nothing; things change when you enter the arena. When your life is on the line, a tribute who had scored a 3 could murder a high scoring Tribute without any hesitation or trouble. Sometimes the high scoring tributes crack under pressure and sometimes the tributes who had scored the lowest had been underestimated in the Games and had come out victorious.

Finally it was District Twelve’s turn.

Stiles’ photo flashed up on the screen.

He nearly fell off the chair when his score came up.

10.

“Ten?” he squawked, genuinely surprised.

Allison smiled, gently patting Stiles’ shoulder. “Looks like you convinced them.”

Stiles’ shock faded as he realised the reality of the situation. He sank back into the couch and shook his head. “It looks like I’ve just stuck a target on my back.”

Allison’s photo flashed across the screen.

9.

“You did better than me?” Allison gasped.

Stiles shrugged. “I’m surprised too. But that’s probably because you have a level of skill that competes with the Careers whereas I made them shit their pants when I impaled the suckling pig.”

The Capitol anthem silenced them, the blaring volume ringing in their ears as it was played through the speakers and signalled the end of the broadcast.

Finally, quiet returned to the room.

“Okay, next step.” Peter stepped around the edge of the couch to face the two children. “Tomorrow you’ll meet with Danny, the presenter of the Games, for interviews. You’ll need to make an impression in order to get sponsors – and believe me, in the Games, you’ll need those sponsors.”

“So, what do we do?” Allison asked.

“You need to prepare an interview, take an angle; the tough guy, the sweet angel, the threatening warrior. For one of you, that will be harder than the other,” he said, staring at Stiles.

Stiles reared back, offended. “I’ll get sponsors. I’m adorable.”

“Yes, but you won’t get sponsors unless you make enough of an impression that they believe you have a chance of surviving in the arena. While your score helps, your appearance and personality doesn’t back it up enough to secure you their support; not only sponsors, but allies too.”

“He’s got me,” Allison growled. She took a hold of Stiles’ hand without looking. “I’m not leaving him alone in the arena.”

“You might not have a choice,” Peter replied, voice low. “And regardless, there will come a time in the arena when you need a funnel to fetch clean water, or a tonic to counter tracker jacker venom, or healing cream. And without them you will die. You need sponsors.”

“We have you,” Allison countered. “And everyone back home.”

“You’d be asking everyone in Twelve to give up all their rations for a whole year in order to afford one item and I wouldn’t be able to deal with that. Besides, there’s only so much I can do. Besides, why would I waste my resources on a couple of scrappy kids that I’m still not convinced will survive a day in the arena? Especially since I’m… Lydia, what did you call me this morning?”

“An egotistical sociopathic asshole with no regards to decency, manners or life,” Lydia replied without missing a beat, glancing down at her brightly coloured nails.

Peter looked from Lydia to the kids, content that she had proven his point.

“How do I convince them I’ll survive?” Stiles asked, breaking the tension between Allison and their mentor and changing the subject.

Peter’s pale blue eyes flicked to Stiles. “Skills. Allies. But more importantly, confidence. It’s not about brute strength, it’s about survival.”

“That’s what District Twelve is best at, right?” Lydia perked up, offering them a kind smile. “Surviving.”

“Then how come we’ve only ever won the Games once?” Stiles countered.

“Because I was confident enough in knowing I’ll survive,” Peter replied proudly. “Others were crippled by fear and forgot that they had struggled through worse their entire life.” His voice shifted, lightening as he returned to the previous conversation topic. “Now, I’ll ask again, do you two want to train for your interview together or separately?”

They didn’t even look at each other to confirm it. They spoke in unison as they replied, “Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> celestialvoid-fanficton.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Stiles admitted.

He had spent hours with Allison and Peter working on answers for some predicted interview questions and how they were going to present themselves. But even after all of that, he was still nervous, and the thought of keeling over and having a panic attack on live TV was not helping.

“What is it that has you so worried?” Deaton asked, his voice gentle and comforting as he moved around Stiles as he helped the boy straighten his jacket.

Stiles was grateful that Deaton hadn’t dolled him up in an obnoxiously bright outfit like the other designers do or put him in an extravagant suit like the one he wore for the Opening Ceremony. Instead, he wore a dark grey dress shirt buttoned up to his sternum, leaving the collar hanging open – something that Stiles was extremely grateful for because the last thing he wanted was to feel like he was being choked. The hem of his shirt was baggy and rippled over a pair of casual jeans, the dark denim fitting his slim legs and making them seem appealing rather than scrawny. The simplistic outfit was contradicted but completed by a pair of glossy black dress shoes and a matching the thin black jacket, lined with a bright red fabric that flashed every now and then when Stiles moved. A thin trail of gold beads ran along the edges of his jacket’s lapels and around the cuffs, breaking the solid black fabric. His hair was left as is, the ruffled chestnut mess adding to the casual look.

“I have issues talking to strangers,” Stiles explained. “And – no offence, but – the people in the Capitol are pretty high on that list.”

“You don’t seem to have an issue talking to me,” Deaton countered, voice soft as he spoke.

“You’re different. You’re… normal.”

“Well, I will be sitting in the front row and Allison has her interview before you so she’ll be sitting among the tributes. If you get scared, just find one of us and act like you’re talking to us, not Danny. Sound like a plan?”

Stiles sighed. “Maybe.”

“Hey, handsome,” Allison interrupted, tottering over to Stiles’ side in a pair of high heels. The rippling hem of her gown sat just high enough off the ground that he could see the black heels that were strapped to her feet; the cuff of the heel decorated with half a dozen strings of golden beads and the soles flashed red as she took slow and cautious steps.

Her skin seemed to glow against the inky black fabric of her dress. The thick straps sat just off her slender shoulders, the fabric running in a stream that dipped down into her chest and framed her pendant. She wore a second necklace, one made of roughly cut glittering onyx beads. A thick sash was wound around her ribs and the mesh skirt rippled and billowed out form her hips. Her hair was loose, rippling down over her shoulders and framing her face. A thin layer of makeup was spread across her skin, not enough to cover her natural beauty but just enough to make sure she didn’t look like a ghost in the glare of the bright stage lights. A thin ring of black eyeliner framed her dark eyes and a light sprinkle of gold eyeshadow dusted her eyelids, matching the gold tinted lipstick that lined her plump lips, the corners tilted up in a sweet smile.

Stiles’ jaw fell slack.

Allison looked up at Deaton and pointed at Stiles’ gobsmacked expression. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Yes, you should,” Deaton assured her.

She smiled, a soft blush colouring her cheeks. She turned her gaze back to Stiles. “Are you ready?”

Stiles snapped back to reality. He looked down at himself and glanced at Deaton who nodded to confirm he was finished. He shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Allison took Stiles’ trembling hand in hers, rolling the ball of her thumb across the ridges of his knuckles. He gave Allison’s hand a gentle squeeze as she exhaled deeply, eyes fixed down the length small hallway; on the open doors leading out onto the wide, well-lit stage.

Stiles gave her a soft peck on her cheek and relinquished his hold, letting her walk towards the stage.

“Head high, princess,” he called after her, smiling as she shifted her posture and walked proudly out of the doors.

Stiles turned his attention to the monitor beside him, the screen presenting the compulsory viewing of the broadcast.

His ears rang with the surround-sound effect of the crowd’s roaring applause as Allison stepped out onto the stage, smiling and waving.

Her interview went smoothly. She answered every question Danny Māhealani asked her honestly and without hesitation or flaw. Her radiant smile didn’t falter for a second. Danny asked her questions about her father, her life in District Twelve, and her high training score before he finally turned to the topic of the Opening Ceremony, the audience cheering at the mention of her beautiful gowns – then and now.

“My father always said I had a spark in me,” Allison said, her smile lifting her rosy cheeks and pearly white teeth flashing in a radiant smile. “I brought it tonight. Would you like to see?”

“Oh, yes please!” Danny chirped, turning to the audience. “What do you say?”

The crowd cheered so loudly that it threatened to burst Stiles’ ears.

Allison rose to her feet and stepped forward on the stage. She began to spin, the dark fabric of her dress sparking and flaming as a brilliant blaze consumed the frills, surrounding her like a vibrant aura. Tendrils of orange flames lapped at her skirt, crawling up the front of her dress until they reached the thick black corset where they dissolved into a brilliant shower of sparks that glittered about her.

She slowed to a stop, trying to maintain both her balance and her composure as the thin heels of her shoes threatened to give way.

She giggled as Danny raced over to her side and steadied her.

The flames simmered down, revealing the change the fire had caused. The thin black ruffles of mesh had bled beige, streaming from the centre of her waist and spilling down at the hem.

Stiles wasn’t sure how it was possible, but it was even more gorgeous than before. He didn’t get time to gawk like he had earlier as the stagehands and Lydia ushered him towards the doors, readying him for his entrance.

He heard Danny’s voice through the walls, farewelling Allison as their interview came to an end and he began his introduction.

“He’s the selfless sweetheart from District Twelve who stole our hearts. Please welcome to the stage, the final tribute of the night, Stiles Stilinski.”

The crowd erupted in cheers as Stiles stepped through the doors and out onto the brightly lit stage. He waved at the audience much like Allison had. But the second his eyes adapted to the blinding lights, cold lifeless camera lenses were honed in on him. He forced a smile, acting as if he were walking down the streets of District Twelve. He stopped on the far side of the stage and span about on the spot, the underlining of his coat flashing but not igniting. Stopping, he looked up to Danny who seemed rather upset and disappointed at the lack of flames. Stiles shrugged, shook the man’s extended hand, and waited for the roaring applause to die down before they began their interview.

“No fire today?” Danny asked.

“No, Allison’s the fiery one,” he replied smiling at his friend.

“Well I’m sure we can all say that you have quite a spark in you, am I right?” Danny asked, turning to the audience to elicit a response from them. The crowd cheered. “The Opening Ceremony,” Danny encouraged, the applause growing louder. “Scoring a 10 in the Gamemaker’s Assessment.” The crowd erupted again. “And when you so bravely volunteered. I have to ask - - because we’ve all been dying to know - - why did you volunteer?”

Stiles’ smile faded, he had not been ready for this question – he should have been, but he wasn’t.

“Because Scott is my best friend,” he rasped. “He’s… my brother. We’ve been through everything together and I wasn’t going to stand by and watch as he was dragged away from the people who needed him, the people who love him and told to fight to the death against the girl he loves.”

“You’re referring to Allison?”

“Yes,” Stiles whispered, noticing the glimmer in Allison’s eyes. The brewing tears in both their eyes were a dead giveaway that they were not ready for this. “She’s one of my best friends. I was heart-broken when I heard her name called at the Reaping and I don’t want to face her in the arena… I realise how much this hurts my father and Scott, but I couldn’t just stand there and watch.”

“You’re a brave young man,” Danny said solemnly.

Stiles chuckled breathlessly, his eyes sparkling with humour. “No, I’m not brave. Brash, maybe, and stubborn but I’m not brave. But at least there’s one thing that District Twelve taught me.”

“And what’s that?” Danny asked, turning his head to the audience with an over-exaggerated inquisitive expression.

Stiles glanced down at Allison and smiled softly, knowingly.

“I learnt how to survive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allison's interview dress is inspired by:  
> http://www.deerpearlflowers.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Vera-Wang-Black-Tulle-Wedding-Gown.jpg  
> https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b8/1b/7b/b81b7bd4dc71c451d86915963b5b2c01.jpg


	7. Chapter 7

Today was the day.

Lydia looked Stiles up and down, fidgeting about with the cuffs of his jacket and other fine details – not that they mattered.

Stiles’ forearm itched a red welt forming on his pale skin from where a peacekeeper had inserted his tracking chip. The wound burnt and the muscles of his arms had tensed around the intrusion, making it even more uncomfortable, but the skin over the insertion point had healed.

Every tribute wore the same thing. A black shirt made of thick woven fabric which seemed suited to humid environments and shifting temperatures – or so Deaton told him. It had a white panel running across the shoulders and the sleeve was printed with their District number. A pair of khaki pants were wrapped around his legs, several pockets lining his sides and the cuffs sitting over the thick black leather boots which were clamped onto his feet, fitting disturbingly well. Atop of this was the thin black waterproof jacket that Lydia had fussed over for the past hour or so in order to stay occupied.

Lydia and Stiles had said goodbye to Allison back at the Tribute Centre. Peter had gone with her, which was probably for the best; she would have wanted to focus, not to deal with tears or soppy farewells.

Finally content with how Stiles’ clothes sat Lydia stepped back, standing in front of him and looking at the boy solemnly. She lifted her bright green eyes to his and for the first time he saw a glimmer of something: a spark of remorse and sorrow that broke past her radiating confidence and beauty.

“You don’t deserve this,” she muttered, her words and the sincerity in her voice shocking Stiles. “You deserve so much better than this.”

She gently cupped his cheek, her soft touch warm against his mole-speckled skin.

“I honestly hope you survive this,” she whispered, leaning forward to press a soft peck against his cheek. “Good luck, Stiles."

“Thank you.”

Lydia stepped aside, failing to turn her face away fast enough to hide her tears.

“Lydia,” he called, cautiously reaching out for her trembling shoulder. She drew in a deep breath but didn’t face Stiles. “Take care.”

She nodded, lifting an elegant hand to wipe away a tear.

Deaton stepped forward. “You’re dressed for a humid environment. A rainforest or woodland perhaps. The nights will be cold and water will be scarce, be mindful of that.”

Stiles nodded.

“Once you’re on your podium, survey the area. You have one minute until the Games officially begin,” Deaton added. “Do not go towards the cornucopia, it will be a bloodbath. Run. Find shelter. Hide. And when things begin to die down, find resources.”

Deaton smiled softly, the flicker of worry glowing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something when a voice interrupted them, “ _Tributes take your places. One minute until entry_.”

Stiles stepped onto the small plate. The clear tube slid down around him, hissing as it caged him and locked into place.

His heart began to pound against the jail bars of his ribs, desperate to break through. His breath came in short, broken gasps. He gulped down air, desperately to his panicked breathing and thundering heartbeat.

Lydia turned back to face him, her voice slightly muffled by the barrier between them as she said, “I bet Peter a substantial amount of money that you will last longer than the first day and you’d better prove me right.”

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll do my best.”

“ _Thirty seconds until launch_.”

“Good luck, kid,” Deaton said.

“ _Twenty seconds_.”

“It’s been nice knowing you,” Stiles told the both of them, starting to feel a suffocating sense of claustrophobia set in.

“May the odds be in your favour,” Deaton called from the other side of the Perspex.

“ _Fifteen seconds_.”

“They never have been,” Stiles muttered.

“And that has never stopped you before,” Deaton argued.

Stiles nodded.

“ _Ten seconds_.”

He wanted to cry.

How could these two people come to care for him so much after just a couple of days? How could they have let themselves get so emotionally involved with someone who was bound to die in the first ten minutes?

“ _Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five_.”

“Stiles,” Lydia called over the speakers. “Run and hide. Don’t risk your life for nothing.”

“ _Four. Three. Two_.”

“Run, hide and survive,” Lydia reiterated firmly.

Stiles nodded.

“ _One. Launch_.”

The plate below him shook slightly as he began to rise. Lydia and Deaton sank out of view.

Stiles tried to steady his breathing, gasping desperately for the thin air as he rose higher and higher. A small trap door opened up above him. He squinted against the glaring light of the world beyond.

His breathing was rugged. His heart was beating fast.

The sky was lit by the numbers as they counted down, loud beats signalling the seconds.

60 seconds. They had to wait that long.

Tributes around him braced themselves to run, not willing to step off the podium until the time was up. And that was the best decision they’d ever made, especially considering a few years ago it had become law that explosive mines were to be buried around the podiums, set to disarm after the timer was finished in order to prevent the tributes from cheating and stepping off the podiums before the Games began.

40 seconds.

Deaton’s advice was still fresh in his mind.

He glanced about at the surrounding area.

Forest: thick trees that were climbable and dense enough that cover would be easy. It gave him an advantage. It was somewhat familiar to him, thank goodness.

30 seconds.

He searched the arena for Allison, spotting her across the open field. Her dark hair had been braided and laid across his shoulder.

She caught his eyes and mouthed ‘run for the trees’. Stiles nodded, noticing her eyes flick from him to the gleaming silver bow that sat atop the rack of weapons. She glanced back at Stiles, possibly feeling his burning glare. Stiles mouthed ‘no’, but she had made her decision.

20 seconds.

People were getting ready to run.

The Careers were doubled over, fingers braced on the edges of their podiums, ready to sprint forward the second the timer stopped. A few of the other tributes were brave enough to risk it, with one or two being smart enough to angle their feet away and brace themselves to run into the shadows beyond the tree line.

Allison glanced up at Stiles again, ignoring him as he shook his head. She turned her attention to the bow, her eyes fixed on it as the timer ticked down.

10 seconds.

“Please, no,” Stiles whispered to himself. He felt all strength drain from his body as his blood ran cold.

Stiles held his breath.

5.

4.

3.

2.

1.

Begin.

The world fell silent as tributes ran forward into the cornucopia.

Heavy boots thumped against the ground, upturning tufts of thick green grass. Rugged breaths fell from parted lips.

A couple of tributes were taken out instantly; knocked to the ground by thrown punches and trampled by others or necks snapped by brute strength, the sound of breaking bones ringing in Stiles’ ears.

Allison disappeared among the mass of flurrying limbs.

The cornucopia became a slaughter house: children were impaled and torn to shreds by other children, their limp, bloody bodies tossed aside as tributes greedily snatched bags, food, weapons, or anything they could get their hands on.

Stiles froze. His heart thumped in his ears as bile rose into his throat.

His mind screamed at him to run, but his body felt numb.

A tribute ran towards him, wielding a sword and screaming like a beast. He halted midway, small droplets of bright red blood dripping from his mouth. Stiles’ eyes fell to the barbed end of a javelin that was protruding from the boy’s chest. His limbs jerked as the killer tore the spear it free of his corpse.

The towering figure of a Career – Ennis – trudged towards him, his grip tightened on the javelin and his face set in a snarl as he growled viciously, cold eyes locked on his next target: Stiles.

A dark figure leapt at Ennis and tackled him, knocking him to the ground, quickly followed by a young blonde girl. The two tried their hardest to keep the Career pinned against the earth.

Another Career ran towards at Stiles, gently shoving the boy’s chest as he ordered him about. The shock muffled his words but Stiles could just make out the quiet rumble of Derek Hale’s voice.

The older boy shoved a bag into Stiles’ hands and gently pushed at his chest again, bellowing over the painful screams, savage howls and gargled cries that echoed through the space. “Run. I’ll get your friend. Run and hide.”

Stiles flailed about, stumbling backwards. His feet hit the ground. He used a hand to steady himself, leaping to his feet and tearing into the darkness beyond the trees.

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs, his nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projecting him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He tried to keep himself upright, struggling not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the massacre.

The sounds drained away, disappearing behind him as he ran further and further into the dense forest.

He slowed, running on the spot as he turned about to check whether he was being followed or under threat. He began to settle, setting his feet down on the ground and slumping back against the thick trunk of a nearby tree as he tried to catch his breath.

A round of cannon fire startled him, each boom making him jolt.

The delayed count of the number of tributes killed in the opening bloodshed had begun.

Stiles counted them, one by one, not sure whether he felt relief at the reduced threat or remorse for those that had been slaughtered.

Nine.

“Fourteen left,” Stiles whispered to himself. He turned and looked back the way he had come.

He felt his heart sink and his stomach twist and churn as anxiety flooded through him.

Allison.

It was still light, it would be another few hours before he would find out whether or not she had survived.

He inhaled deeply and forced himself to continue his hike through the shadows of the dense forest.

His boot struck an upturned root and his feet fell from beneath him. He toppled down an embankment, rolling down the cold earth until he came to a stop, face pressed against the cool dirt.

He sighed and braced his hands against the ground, sharp sticks prodding his palms. Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath him as he lifted his weight to his wobbling legs. Fallen branches snagged at his ankles, scratching at the rough fabric of his pants and drawing small droplets of blood from the skin beneath. Their extended limbs reached for him, clawing at him like a savage animal. He sat upright and listened, hearing the rustle of leaves and snapping twigs.

He froze.

They were coming closer.

Stiles leapt to his feet and sprinted to a nearby pine tree, ungracefully hurling himself up into the branches and climbing into the camouflage of the thick foliage.

The female tribute from District Eleven and the young girl from District Five sprinted through the undergrowth below him, skiing down the embankment and stumbling forward.

The air was split with a thin whistle that was silenced by a violent crack of bone and choked breath as the girl from District Eleven hit the ground, the gleaming pole of a javelin rammed between her shoulder blades. Her limbs twitched as her life drained away from her. Her chocolate brown skin was stained red.

The girl from District Five, Kira, collapsed to the ground, scurrying backwards on her hands. Her face was stained with horror and streaked with tears. She screamed as Ennis stalked through the forest towards her. Blood was smeared across his face and his clothes were torn in patches from his previous fights.

A thundering clap shattered the air as a cannon fired.

Stiles watched, his hand clapped over his mouth and his breath shallow and panicked as Ennis closed the gap between him and the small, defenceless girl.

“Shit,” Stiles hissed at himself, shifting on the branch and bracing himself. He leapt from the bough and dropped to Ennis’s shoulders, knocking the Career to the ground.

Stiles scurried to his feet.

“Run,” he screamed at Kira, snatching up the small girl’s hand and dragging her to her feet as they sprinted into the dense foliage. He vaulted over a fallen log, reaching back to lift Kira over.

She seemed a little confused and scared, her limbs slowed by fear but following him nonetheless.

Ennis was stunned, growling as he rose to his feet. He howled, tearing the javelin from the corpse and racing after them.

The thick soles of their shoes turned up clumps of dirt and the littered carcases of leaves.

Stiles led Kira into a cluster of trees, weaving the through trunks before slowing before a tree. He crouched before her, levelling his eyes with hers.

“Kira?” he whispered. She nodded. “I’m going to lift you into the tree. I need to you to climb as high as you can and hide. I’m going to lead the psycho away. When it’s safe, come down. Find some shelter, water and food, and stay hidden for the night.”

She nodded again, panting rugged breaths as wet trails of glistening tears streaked her cheeks.

Stiles lifted her onto one of the lower hanging branches, watching for a second as she began to scurry up through the branches.

“Stay safe,” he whispered before turning and running through the labyrinth of bleached birch trees and dark pine trees.

“I’m going to kill you!” Ennis’ voice rang through the forest, livid with rage as he chased Stiles through the shadows.

Stiles dove behind a tree, pushing his back up against the rough bark of a dull grey pine. He tried to slow his breathing, ignoring the thundering beat of his heart as he pressed the base of his skull back against the tree hard enough that it threatened to draw blood.

Ennis’ heavy footsteps thumped against the ground, drawing closer and closer.

They fell still, a disturbing blanket silence settling over the forest.

Stiles glanced out the corner of his eye, watching as Ennis glared at the shadows. He growled like a predator, heavy shoulders rising and falling with rugged breaths.

Stiles pushed himself back further against the tree, blending into the shadows.

“I’ll find you, Twelve!” Ennis howled like a behemoth, his voice aimlessly directed towards the inky black shadows. Birds screeched and flew away in fear. “And when I do, I’m going to take pleasure in tearing you limb from limb.”

He turned, adjusting his grip on his javelin before sprinting back through the undergrowth.

 _I look forward to it_ , Stiles drolled sarcastically to himself.


	8. Chapter 8

The light was dwindling and twilight was seeping in. Twinkling stars blossomed on the ceiling of the arena.

Stiles scurried over to a nearby tree and clambered up into the branches. He found a forked branch sturdy enough to support his weight and settled down on it. He unfastened his belt and wound it around his legs, holding him in place. He didn’t expect to sleep, but if he did, he didn’t want to fall out of the tree.

He settled back against the thick trunk, pulling the collar of his jacket up around his neck.

His moment of comfort was disturbed when the sky lit up with the glaring light of the Capitol emblem, the anthem blaring across the arena.

Stiles crept forward just enough to see through the foliage of the tree. He watched the series of photos flash across the sky with the caption of bright letters and number: the fallen tributes.

He felt his stomach twist in guilt when he saw the portrait of the girl from District 3, Erica – the blonde who had attacked Ennis. The girl from District 4, Malia – who had stood on the podium beside Stiles’ and braced herself to run straight into the forest. Both tributes from District 6 and District 8. The girl from District 9 and the boy from District 10 – the one Ennis had impaled when he charged at Stiles. The boy from District 11 – the older boy with dark skin who had tackled Ennis and saved Stiles’ life, Boyd – and finally the young girl from District 11 who had been running with Kira, Braeden was her name.

Stiles hung his head for a second, whispering a soft thank you to those who had saved him.

Once the presentation had finished the sky fell dark again, artificial stars twinkling against the imagined void. His ears rang, the Capitol’s anthem leaving a ghostly trace on his mind.

“Ten dead,” Stiles whispered to himself. A though struck him, his heartbeat picking up with a flicker of hope. “Allison’s still alive”

A painful cry shattered the quiet. Against his better judgment, Stiles unfastened the belt, leapt from the branches and sprinted towards the cry.

Through the darkness Stiles could make out the dark shape of a small figure as it dropped to the ground and another silhouette scurried away.

He dropped it into the damp carcases of fallen leaves and detritus. He lifted the young girl into his lap and holding her close, talking to her softly. The dull moonlight lit the child’s face.

“Kira?” he gasped, pulling her closer and cradling her head. His hands quivered as his fingers brushed against the small dart protruding from her upper arm. He pulled it out of her flesh and sniffed at the dampened tip. Beyond the copper smell of blood there was something else. Something bitter but organic.

“Aconite,” Stiles gasped. “Wolfsbane.”

He thought for a second, trying to remember all the things that Allison and Chris had taught him while on their hunts through the forests outside District Twelve.

Wolfsbane: deadly to humans. Lethal in any concentration. Induces vomiting, a burning sensation, and a numbness that spreads throughout the body until finally the organs give out and the person dies. A concentration as high as this would kill within minutes.

“I’m going to die,” she whimpered.

Stiles considered lying to her, just to comfort her, but the glimmer in her eye made him feel nothing but guilt and sorrow. She knew this was the end.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, tears brimming in his eyes. “I can’t help you. I can’t save you.”

“Can you stay with me?” she pleaded. “I’m scared.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay right here.”

He took a hold of her hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

She tried to thank him but his words were cut off when she coughed and spluttered, spewing blood and bile onto the forest floor.

It had begun.

“It burns,” she cried.

“It’s okay. It won’t hurt for long,” he promised.

He tried to think quickly, glad that the shadows of night hid his falling tears.

“Look,” he whispered, pointing up at the sky. “Look at the stars. Aren’t they pretty?”

Kira sniffed, her body trembling as she turned her gaze up to the sky.

“My mum always told me that when people die, their souls becomes a star in the sky,” Stiles muttered. He glanced down, watching as glistening crystal-like tears caressed Kira’s smooth cheeks. He gently brushed back the loose strands of her dark hair. She began to shake violently and Stiles tried to hold his composure, speaking softly to her. “Yours will shine the brightest. And I will always remember you. I promise.”

She fell still, her dark eyes glassy and misted as she looked at him.

Her voice was weak as she rasped, “Thank you… I hope… you… win.”

Her heavy eyelids fell shut as her body fell weak in his arms, her hand striking the ground as a cannon fired overhead.

Stiles jolted at the sound, not able to hold back his emotions anymore. He bent over her dead body and cried, letting the hot tears fall against her cold flesh. He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, gently laying her among the damp leaves and resting her head against a soft cushion of moss.

To his side a clutter of luminescent flowers twinkled in the dull light. He plucked them and gathered them, crossing her arms over her chest and resting the small bouquet of flowers and mushrooms beneath her palms. It wasn’t much – he wished he could have done so much more – but it would have to do.

He pressed another soft kiss to her forehead and stepped back. He looked among the branches until he caught sight of a glint as the artificial moonlight reflected off of the glossy lens of a camera.

He turned towards the camera, pressed three fingers to his lips and rose them into the air.

The District Twelve funeral salute. One last action to honour the dead.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles made his way through the undergrowth, not bothering to try and climb into his tree and sleep.  The fear of another tribute being so close by and armed with something as deadly as wolfsbane spiked his anxiety and left him running on adrenaline.

He made his way back to the tree as quietly as he could and pulled his bag down from the forked branch. He fumbled about with it, checking that his belongings were still in there. He found a small sheathed hunting knife at the bottom of the pack. He pulled it out of the backpack and unsheathed it, checking the blade before sliding it back into the sheath and clipping it onto the belt of his pants.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. And, at least now, he had a chance to fight back.

His eyes felt sore and heavy and his aching limbs begged to rest, but he couldn’t; he had to keep moving.

He zipped up the bag and swung it onto his back. He adjusted the straps until they sat comfortably on his slender form.

He rose to his feet and wove his way through the trees.

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and – although it wasn’t perfect – he could make out the silhouettes of trees and animals: birds, rabbits, lizards, mice and other creatures that scurried among the brush. He could make out the shapes of the trees, the bushes and the jagged roots that reached up towards him, skilfully avoiding them and staying as quiet as he could. He stalked through the bush like a scared deer: cautious, panicked and attentive.

He jumped at every sound: the cracking of twigs, the rustling of branches, and the birds that screamed in his presence.

Every sound made his heart rise into his throat, suffocating him.

Animals came sprinting through the forest, all fleeing from the one direction.

Stiles dove behind a tree.

If someone was there, he had to stay hidden.

He listened for footfalls.

Nothing.

He had time.

He climbed up into the boughs of the tree, blending into the shadows as he tried his best to stay hidden.

He listened carefully.

There was a sound stirring among the bushes; not footsteps, crackling.

Stiles felt beads of sweat roll across his skin.

 _Why is it so damn hot all of a sudden?_ he asked himself, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his jacket.

This was more than just the warmth of panic as his blood pounded through his veins. This was hot.

The shadows around him began to recede, replaced by a bright orange glow. He blinked his heavy, tired eyes, watching as the bark on the branch at his feet seemed to glow, the rough grains erupting into colour: brown, red, orange, yellow and the flickering shadows.

 _It can’t be dawn already_ , Stiles thought.

He dared to peer around the trunk of the tree.

His eyes fell upon the rampant blaze, a wall of fire rolling towards him.

He swallowed hard. His heart beat against his chest.

Fire.

“Shit,” he hissed.

He looked back the way he had come.

He didn’t have time to climb down and run.

There was another tree nearby, outstretched branches thick enough to support his weight.

He didn’t have time to second guess himself, no time to hesitate.

He leapt from the branch, arms stretched out in front of him. He grabbed the branch, the rough bark tearing open the skin of the palms of his hands. He swung down to the forest floor and hit the ground running. The thick leather soles of his boots thumped the earth as his nimble legs projected him forward. He wasn’t graceful like a deer – far from it – but he could run.

Scattering animals raced alongside him, eyes wide with fear as they tried to outrun the wall of fire that consumed the forest, carving its path through the woodland as if nothing stood in its way.

He sprinted through the forest, back the way he had come.

He didn’t care about being quiet, about trying to avoid any other tributes; the sound of the roaring fire would have been enough to drown out his rugged panting and heavy footsteps.

His foot slid into a ditch, buckling his ankle. He hit the ground, cursing himself as he forced himself up onto his feet. He let out pained cries, tears falling from his eyes as he limped away from the ravenous flames.

Up ahead he saw the shimmer of inky black water.

 _Don’t think_ , he told himself. _Do._

Stiles slid down the embankment and plunged into the water.

He thrashed about a little, trying his best to fight the current and swim across to the other side. The water crashed against him, knocking him over and pushing him downstream. He fought back, gasping and panting as he made his way to the embankment. His arms sank into the mud, his lethargic body dragging behind him as he waded through the sludge. His hand grabbed at the solid, dry earth. The searing heat burnt at his back, boiling the beads of water that clung to his skin.

Every muscle in his body ached, refusing to move.

This was too much.

 _I’m going to die eventually,_ Stiles thought to himself. _Why not now?_

He thumped his hand against the ground and rose to his feet. He turned and faced the raging fire.

“I won’t play your game,” the boy rasped. “I will not be herded like some kind of animal.”

The fire rolled forward, consuming all it touched.

“You hear me?!” Stiles howled. “I won’t play your game!”

The wall of blazing fire reached the edge of the river, rolling high into the sky as if it were a wave that had struck the rocky shore. The flames crashed against themselves and dissipated.

The cool darkness returned.

The thin wisps of smoke rose from the piles of cinders and ash. The forest that was once green and brown was now black, grey and orange. The mist of smoke was replaced by a thin veil of fog that rolled through the undergrowth.

“That all you got?” Stiles called into the night. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to kill me.”

Stiles collapsed to the ground, rolling down the embankment to the shoreline.

He winced as the mud seeped into his burns and the gashes that fallen branches and rough rocks had torn into his flesh.

He panted ruggedly, lifting his face out of the mud.

A metre or so ahead of him was a small cave that was cut into the embankment. The roots of a nearby tree had buckled and curved, creating a woven wall that pushed the mud back and carved a small shelter into the embankment.

Stiles held his breath, muffling his grunts and pained whimpers as he lifted himself up onto his elbows and dragged himself towards the cave. His body trailed behind him. Once inside the cool shadows of the shelter, he slumped back against the cave wall, taking a moment to catch his breath.

 _I’ll stay here and catch my breath_ , he told himself. _There’s no way I’m sleeping, I just need to rest._

He shrugged his bag off his back, pulling open the wet canvas. The dirty water had soaked all the way through, soaking his loaf of bread and covering it in mud.

Stiles had never been picky before in his life, but he knew when something was inedible.

He sighed and leant back against the woven wall of roots.

He was alone. He was without supplies. He was most likely going to die.

He didn’t stand a chance.


	10. Chapter 10

Dawn cracked in the arena, streaking the sky with magnificent splashed of oranges, reds and purples.

Stiles hadn’t slept.

His eyes felt swollen and his legs were heavy as he dragged them through the undergrowth. He wished he had slept but he knew it would have been impossible. He knew his abilities were limited: he barely had the strength to fight someone off before – and that was even worse now – and he didn’t have the energy to run away if he were to be confronted. His sensory input was weakened – meaning anyone could sneak up on him and he’d never hear their footsteps among the fallen leaves and scattered twigs – and his reaction times were slow. That could be deadly in this situation. The adrenaline hadn’t kicked in yet and he was struggling to blink his eyes open.

His throat burnt and his mouth was as dry and rough as sandpaper. His lips were chapped and splitting, the copper taste of blood seeping into his mouth. No matter how many times he ran his tongue across them, it didn’t help.

Something buzzed around his head but he didn’t take notice of it, waving his hand weakly in order to shoo it away. A jolt of pain tore through him as he glanced at the back of his hand. A wasp-like creature sat atop his pale skin, its barbed stinger buried deep in his swelling, reddening skin.

“Tracker jacker,” he gasped, a wave of panic sending shivers down his spine.

The tracker jacker fluttered about before pulling back and stinging him again. Another tracker jacker joined, stinging his neck and making the boy wince. He hissed in pain and swatted the creature away, pain flooding through him.

His vision began to blur, colours bleeding into a swirling mass and streaks of light scorching his eyes.

He tried to breathe, the broken gasps failing to let the cool relief of air into his boy. His lungs burnt and the tight muscles of his legs ached as he tried to move. Running would be useless; tracker jackers were designed to hunt and kill, but regardless, his brain screamed at him to get away from the swarm.

The tracker jackers began to gather, encircling him in a buzzing hurricane of chittering wings and vicious venomous stings, the cascading sound drowning out the noise of the world around him.

He dropped to his knees, limbs weak as he toppled to the ground. Out the corner of his eye he could see green ooze and puss boil out of his skin, bubbling like a hot spring as it streamed across his swollen, pale skin.

A cannon fired overhead.

 _Let it be me_ , Stiles pleaded silently. _Please, let it be me_.

Another cannon fired and the swarm began to dissipate. Through the haze of his vision Stiles saw the rippling tide of insects waver like a flapping blanket before thinning out and moving on to other targets

Stiles blinked heavily, his chestnut-brown eyes focusing on the odd shapes that laid beside him. His vision cleared just enough to see the two bloated corpses next to him. Their faces were unrecognisable, swollen and discoloured: smears of red, blue and green tainting their skin. There was two of them: a boy and a girl judging by the cut of their shirts and the length of their dirty hair. Through the haze he made out the black outlines of numbers on their sleeves: 5 and 10.

Bile rose into his throat, burning like lava as he tried to swallow it back down.

He rolled onto his back and wheeled away from the corpses.

There was a loud crack, the gut-wrenching sound of breaking bones or splintering wood.

Stiles around, his head tilted up towards the thick pine tree that arched over him. The tree – like the others around him – was split in half, open gashes of pale grain and flesh spilling crimson blood and boiling black tar – not sap – across the forest floor. The tides of ooze lapped over each other, swirling together like oil and water.

The cool relief of adrenaline coursed through his blood and just in time. Stiles scrambled to his feet and sprinted through the small pathway of dead leaves and mossy detritus, the parted waves of water collapsing around him as the inky liquid gargled and lapped at his heels.

He stumbled over his own feet, scurrying through the trees. The cascading waves of bubbling black tar rose around him, the bitter smell of copper and blood chocking him. The tidal wave of ooze crashed over him, knocking him off his feet and tossing him about before dropping him into the mud.

Stiles coughed and sputtered, feeling a smear of cold clay seep into his skin, covering the tracker jacker stings.

He sighed with relief and sank further into the mud.

He looked at the back of his hand, watching the skin bubble and weep. Green pus dripped from the small opening as something pushed out of his skin. A small green bud grew through his hand, tearing at the flesh. The casing drew back and a vibrant crimson flower blossomed. It was alive and beautiful, but only for seconds. The petals began to wilt, darkening with bruises and flaking away like ashes as it liquefied and bled over the back of his hand.

Stiles wanted to cry.

He was scared. He was confused. He was alone.

He held back his sobs, biting into his lip as he lifted himself onto his elbows and crawled over to a small puddle of water. He submerged his hands beneath the icy cold liquid and scrubbed at his flesh with the calloused buds of his fingers. He drew his arm back, his flesh now clear of blood, pus and hallucinated flowers.

As the rippling puddle settled, Stiles crept closer and looked down at his own reflection.

Something was off. He reached forward, pressing his hand to the surface of the water.

It was solid.

A mirror.

His reflection stared back at him. His hair was clad with mud and littered leaves, unkempt and sticking up at off angles. Dark shadows dragged at his weary, sleepless eyes and his lips were chapped and bleeding.

He blinked, watching as his reflection delayed their blink. He furrowed his bow leaning in closer.

A hand grabbed his.

His reflections leapt forward, shattering the barrier. It dragged him into the dark abyss of the water.

He screamed, but the sound was silenced by the bubbles that caught the sound, his rugged cry tearing at his empty lungs. He thrashed about, breaking free of the reflection’s grasp and wheeling back against the muddy bank. He collapsed on his back, looking up at the patches of clear blue sky that broke through the dense foliage.

Flickers of black shadows passed overhead.

 _They’re just birds,_ Stiles told himself.

There was a loud screech as a splatter of hot liquid against Stiles’ mole-speckled cheek.

The flock of birds followed suit, dropping bloody viscera over Stiles’ still body.

He refused to move. He couldn’t. He was too tired.

Splatters of gore hit his pale cheeks, hot and sticky as chunks of flesh clung to his skin and thin streams of blood trickled across his flesh. It smelt bitter, metallic.

He shut his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him.

It felt like rain, the heavy drops splashing in the puddles of mud that surrounded him.

The blood melted away from his skin, streaming like a river through a mountainside and clearing his pores.

He blinked his eyes open, weakly.

He wasn’t in the arena; he was staring at the withered wooden planks of his bedroom wall back in District Twelve.

He sat upright, feeling the thin blanket fall away from him and pool at his waist. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet falling against the smooth, aged floorboards. He rose off the bed and stepped out into the narrow hallway. He followed the slur of hushed conversations down the tunnelling corridor, the walls stretching further and further away as he tried to follow the soft voices. He crept forward and found himself standing in the open doorway of the kitchen.

There was a woman sitting at the table, her pale blue dress was draped over the whittled wood of her chair. The hems had been darkened by coal and dust and the thick cotton stitching had frayed. Her light brown hair billowed like a curtain of curls that cascaded across her shoulder blades. Her elegant hands were wrapped around a small teacup, the drink neglected and ice cold. She was talking quietly to his father.

He tried to say her name but his voice failed him, his lungs empty and his lips quivering.

His father lifted his pale eyes lifted to the boy. His aged face was phased out of focus, a blur of colour.

He tried again, his voice scratching at his throat as he croaked, “Mum.”

His mother span in her seat, soft brown curls bouncing off her shoulders. Her dark eyes were wide with a mix of fear and horror.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she screeched.

“Mum?” Stiles gasped.

“Don’t look at me!”

She leapt out of her seat, her skin darkening and flaking away like ash and charcoal. She shoved Stiles back against the doorframe. Her usually-loving brown eyes glowed with rage and fire.

His nostrils burned with the bitter smell of seared flesh and he choked on rugged breaths as fear flooded his veins.

Jagged claws dragged at his arms as he flailed and tried to run away. She slid away from him, wheezing. Her corpse hit the ground, shattering into glistening shards like glass.

Tears stung at his eyes, heavy sobs shaking his body as his ears rang with the shrill noise. The sound was replaced by his father’s hoarse voice, thundering in his ears.

“It’s you… It’s all you.”

Stiles lifted his eyes, his father’s face coming into focus as he blinked away the streaking glare of tears.

His father stumbled about, waving the half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. John’s faded eyes were bloodshot and cheeks were flushed red as he spat the slurred words, saliva dribbling from his lips.

It was a memory – a hallucination of a memory to be exact – but it seemed so real.

“You know, every day I saw her lying in that bed slowly dying I thought ‘how the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little _bastard_ that keeps _ruining_ my life’.”

The tears grew hotter, heavier.

Stiles could hear the whiskey slosh in the bottle, crashing waves of golden liquor. He could smell it on his father: on his breath, on the rags of his clothes, and oozing out of the pores of his skin.

“It’s you, _Stiles_ ,” John spat venomously. “You killed your mother, you hear me? You killed her. And now you’re killing me.”

He hurled the liquor bottle at the boy. It shattered against the doorframe, but Stiles didn’t react. He didn’t cower or flinch. He stood still and let the shards of glass rain over him.

It was silent.

His father plunged his hand into his own chest, tearing apart tissue and bone. He ripped out his beating heart and held it up to the boy. Blood dripped from his knuckles, glistening like ruby gems that shattered over the dusty floorboards.

“She’s gone now. I don’t need this,” his father rasped, tearing it free of his arteries that held it in his chest and dropping it to the floor where it fractured like glass. Each fragment scattered into the shadows and melted into streams of thick red gore.

Plumes of dust and thick black ash rolled about Stiles’ ankles as the house around them toppled down. Everything melted into a thick brown mess that encircled the boy, dragging at his feet and pulling him down into a gargling whirlpool of sludge and mud.

He tried to scream but it flooded his mouth, suffocating him.

“Stiles?” A gruff voice brought him back to reality.

His eyes were barely parted, his mind a haze. Through the fog he could see a pair of vibrant green eyes – wide with fear – looking down at him. A warm hand was pressed to his cheek, their gentle hold keeping his head upright as the boy slowly regained consciousness.

Stiles jolted upright, gasping for air and sputtering as he spat out a mouthful of water, blood and mud.

How long had he been lying there?

The world span and the face loomed over him, broad hands gently steadying the boy.

“Stiles-”

He said something else but it was muted.

Stiles blinked heavily, looking up at the man’s sparkling aventurine eyes.

Derek.

Stiles tried to speak but his voice failed him.

“Stiles, you have to run,” Derek said firmly, his husky voice finally reaching the boy. “Get up and run.”

Derek was hurled backwards. He grunted as he hit the thick trunk of a tree, teeth bared in a vicious snarl and eyes burning with rage.

Another figure stepped into view, her dark skin somewhat luminescent as she twitched her fingers like a predator readying their claws. Her sharpened nails were dangerously close to Stiles’ face, but she hadn’t noticed the boy yet.

“Run!” Derek howled, lunging at Kali.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and sprinted into the forest. He bounced of tree trunks, his shoulders colliding with the rough bark as he stumbled about, falling over his own feet.

A cannon fired overhead.

His legs collapsed beneath him.

The world span, voices screaming in his ears as he slumped back against a tree. He looked around at the bleached skeletons of the birch trees, the eyes of their bark focusing on the boy.

He was in a different part of the arena now.

 _Where am I?_ he asked himself.

“Think,” he whispered to himself. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands. “Start from the start. My name is Stiles Stilinski. I’m sixteen years old. I’m from District Twelve... I volunteered… I’m in the Hunger Games.”

He drew in a few more deep breaths before rising to his feet.

He looked around the arena.

The light was fading.

Through the shadows of the twilight Stiles could just make out the shape of an approaching figure.

His mind was screaming for him to run, but his body refused to more.

Stiles sighed.

 _This is where I die_ , he thought to himself.

The bloodied figure stepped into the light.

District Two’s tribute.

Derek Hale.

He couldn’t run and, even if he was in his right mind, he wouldn’t be able to fight back.

His eyes were focused on Derek as he watched the man stalk forward. Every step he took brought a new, terrifying thought of what Derek would do to him: snap his neck, stab him with a hunting knife, gut him like a bore, slice him in half with his axe, tear his throat out, rip him limb from limb. But to shove him back against the tree and crush their mouths together in a passionate kiss was the last thing he expected.


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles froze.

How the hell was he meant to react to this?

Derek seemed to weaken, the kiss growing more gentle and tender as he lifted his hand to Stiles’ cheek and cupped the soft skin. He drew back ever so slightly, keeping their lips together but pulling the boy forward so that the rough bark of the cedar tree behind him didn’t scratch open the back of Stiles’ jacket or tear at the boy’s delicate skin.

Stiles felt his arms instinctively slide up to Derek’s neck, his fingertips brushing against Derek’s jaw before trailing back to the nape of his neck. He laced his fingers through the soft tufts of Derek’s hair.

He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, pulling Derek in closer and losing himself in the older boy’s warmth.

Stiles felt his heartbeat rise into his throat. His lungs burnt, desperate for air. The hand at the base of Derek’s neck began to tremble.

Derek drew back, enough for the boy to draw breath before bringing their lips together again.

Stiles felt his shoulders drop as he weakened in Derek’s hold. His eyes fluttered shut as he looped his arms around Derek’s neck, desperately clawing at his jacket. Derek dropped one hand to Stiles’ waist and pulled him close. He kept his other hand on the boy’s cheek, brushing the ball of his thumb across the soft skin. He enveloped the smaller boy in his warmth. He ran his tongue across Stiles’ bottom lip and moaned as Stiles obediently opened his mouth to welcome Derek’s tongue.

Stiles sighed and whimpered needily in return, weaving his fingers into Derek’s hair and balling the raven black locks into his fist. His other hand ran down the man’s shoulders, biceps and back. He wanted to feel every inch of Derek’s skin, to trace the seams of his muscles, to feel the curves that made him human and the muscles that made him solid, to feel the warmth of the blood in his veins that made him human and to melt into the curves of his body and the comfort of his arms.

For a second, he debated whether this was really happening or whether it was just another tracker jacker hallucination.  But he didn’t care either way. He wanted this.

He fell weakly into Derek’s arms. His lungs ached so much he wanted to cry but he desperately didn’t want to let go.

Derek drew back, licking his lips and grinning at Stiles’ euphoric expression.

Stiles tilted his chin, chasing his Derek’s lips. He felt Derek chuckle against his mouth as he brought them back together again. He kissed him lightly, drawing away quickly as he craned his neck and placed a trail of kisses across the boy’s cheek, jaw, chin, and neck. He stayed there, gently sucking and nipping at Stiles’ pale skin and moles. His soft lips pressed against Stiles’ racing pulse. Stiles failed to smother a sigh as soft moan escaped his lips. He could feel Derek’s smirk as the older boy pressed soft kisses against the patches of skin which were marred by the soft impressions of bruises and cuts. His hands slid beneath Stiles’ jacket, running up the curve of his spine and urging the boy arch to his touch.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ Stiles asked himself. _We’re meant to be fighting each other. To the death. For glory. Not… this._

But Stiles couldn’t help himself. He wanted this so badly: the intimacy, the delicate touches, the warmth, and the comfort. He wanted Derek.

Derek drew back, panting ruggedly. He opened his eyes, looking deep into Stiles’ warm chocolate irises.

“The girl from District Seven has been trailing you for a while now,” Derek whispered.  

Stiles looked about frantically. The shadows morphed and shifted. His breathing was shallow as a new wave of fear set in.

“Hey, look at me,” Derek whispered, gently stroking Stiles’ cheek. “It’s okay, I promise. You’re safe, and your friend is too.”

“Allison?” Stiles gasped.

Derek nodded.

“She should be up ahead.” He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a handful of leaves. “Take these. Chew them and put them on the tracker jacker stings. They’ll help.”

Derek shrugged his backpack off his shoulders. He rummaged through it, pulling out a pack of crackers and gleaming silver axe.

Stiles froze.

His wide eyes stared at the weapon. He swore he could hear the ringing of the metallic blade as it sliced through the air.

Derek offered the bag to the boy. “There’s enough food and water in there for you and Alison to survive two days,” he explained. “There’s chemicals in there to make water drinkable and a sleeping bag for when the nights get cold. Find cover, stay low and stay safe.”

He took the mud-soaked, torn canvas bag that Stiles had been lugging about. He pulled open the zip and shoved the packet of crackers into the bag before swinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll keep 7 and the Careers off your back. Go.”

Stiles was stunned – confused – for a second. His lips trembled as he stammered, “Y-you… you kissed me?”

Derek raised his brow at the boy. He rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to say something when a snapping twig silenced him.

Derek turned towards the noise, cold green eyes focused on the foliage.

“Go,” he whispered to Stiles.

Stiles fumbled for the handle atop the bag, grabbing a hold of the canvas and scurrying into the darkness. He swung the bag onto his back. He leapt over the thick fallen logs and raced through the dense undergrowth.

He stumbled a couple of times, but quickly regained his footing.

The toe of his boot hit an upturned root. He collapsed to the ground, falling among the cushion of damp autumn leaves that littered the forest floor. Slimy, wet leaves stuck to his cheek as he turned his eyes towards the darkness. The usual rich greens and autumn tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering the moonlight. Streams of silver light surrounded him, not enough to see but just enough to distinguish shapes from shadows.

Among the darkness he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows with eye-like rings that watched him, mockingly, from all angles.

Stiles braced his hands against the ground, sharp sticks prodding his palms. Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath him as he lifted his weight to his wobbling legs. He slowly turned in circles, surveying his surroundings. Fallen branches snagged at his calves, scratching at the pale skin beneath his pants and drawing small droplets of blood.

Two thundering cannon fires broke through the quiet, startling the smaller animals, jolting Stiles and rustling the leaves in the treetops.

Stiles tried to slow his breathing, turning to a nearby tree and climbing up into the mess of outstretched boughs. He settled down on the branch and rummaged through the bag. He pulled out the large bottle of water, taking a few heavy gulps. The water tasted so sweet, not gritty like the water in District Twelve. It didn’t really have a flavour, but in some strange way it tasted delicious.

He gulped down a few more mouthfuls and wound the cap back on, deciding to save it for when he really needed it.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and drew out the handful of leaves Derek had given him. In the dull light he eyed them. They weren’t poisonous. In fact, quite the opposite: they were perfect.

A few years ago, Stiles had been stung by tracker jackers while playing in the forest beyond the fences of District Twelve with Scott and Allison. Allison had used the same kind of leaves to help Stiles, chewed them up and splattered them over the stings.

Of course, back then, Stiles hadn’t been affected by their stings nearly as much. Back then his mother was alive, his father was sober and he wasn’t troubled by horrific nightmares.

Stiles rubbed at his tear-filling eyes, shoving a couple of leaves in his mouth and chewing them. He pulled out the soggy paste and smeared it over the stings that he could feel; the ones on his hands, forearms, neck and a couple along his thighs and shins, exposed by the tears of his pants.

Satisfied by the relief of the mushy paste, Stiles shoved the leaves into a small packet and pulled out a couple of crackers and the sleeping bag. He wiggled into the bag – careful not to fall off the branch – and strapped his belt around his legs again, fastening himself in place. He leant back against the trunk, nibbling at the biscuits as the sky lit up with the Capitol insignia, the anthem ringing in his ears as it played throughout the arena.

The faces of the fallen tributes lit up the sky.

Kali, District 1 – her cold glare tearing through him, leaving a shiver running down his spine. Both of District 5’s tributes: Kira and her fellow male tribute who’s name escaped Stiles. District 7, Jennifer, a nice looking young lady with long black curls who had a shown her psychotic nature as soon as the Games began, the boy from District 9 and the girl from District 10.

Stiles felt a heavy sigh fall from his lips. He didn’t know whether to feel sorry for those who had died, or to be relieved that he was still alive.

Allison was alive.

Derek was alive.

“Six more dead,” Stiles whispered to himself. “Eight of us left.”


	12. Chapter 12

When dawn cracked, Stiles stirred. He shifted about in the sleeping bag, stretching and cautiously sitting upright. He winced at the jolts of pain that rushed through him lanky limbs. He glanced down at his pale flesh, the tracker jacker stings were no longer swollen and weeping pus, just red and irritated like any other bug bite. He sighed and scavenged through the backpack, pulling out the small packet of leaves and applying another lather of mauled mush to the welts.

He rummaged through the bag and pulled out a loaf of bread, a mesh bag full of apples and the large water bottle.

He pulled a ripe red apple from the mesh bag and bit into it. He sighed at the bitter juices, the sweet relief of fresh food. He bit into the thick flesh and held it between his teeth, freeing his hands to put the rest in his bag. He took his time in devouring the apple, savouring it.

At the bottom of the bag was a small hunting knife. He used it to slice the bread, cleaning the blade on the canvas cover of the backpack before sheathing it and strapping it to his shoulder.

He bit into the piece of the bread, feeling the soft, fluffy flesh on his tongue. He froze, unable to shake the memory of pleading blue eyes hungrily watching him. Isaac.

Stiles swallowed hard. Unable to take another bite, he stored the slice of bread away with the leaves and shoved it into his backpack. He sat back against the trunk of the tree.

 _I won’t cry,_ he told himself. _I won’t show weakness. They’ll be okay. They’re better off without me. There’s one less mouth to feed now._

Stiles pulled out the bottle of water and gulped down a few refreshingly sweet mouthfuls before putting it back in his bag. He unstrapped the belt around his legs and slid out of his sleeping bag. He checked his surroundings before tossing everything down to the forest floor. He wound the belt back around his slim hips and scurried down through the branches, dropping to the ground and quickly rolling up the sleeping bag. He shoved the sleeping bag into the pack and shrugged it onto his shoulders.

A loud bang shattered the air.

Stiles clapped his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out in shock. It took him a few seconds to calm himself down, steadying his breathing and trembling hands.

As the ringing in his ears died down, he managed to hear quiet footfalls among the fallen leaves.

Stiles dove behind the tree, pressing his back against the trunk as someone crept closer. He tried to glance around the tree, but as he did there was a quiet hum of a drawn string. His eyes focused on the gleaming tip of the arrowhead aimed right at his face.

“Stiles?” a familiar voice gasped.

The arrow was lowered as warm arms pulled him into a hug.

He slowly felt his muscles relax into the familiar embrace. He inhaled the naturally sweet scent of the girl, his arms coiling around her thin body and holding her close.

“Allison,” he sighed. “Oh thank God.”

He was close to tears when she pulled back, her own chocolate-brown eyes glistening.

Words escaped them.

Stiles pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before pulling away and tearing open his pack to offer the water. She mouthed, “Thank you”, and took the bottle. 

“If we can get to a water source I’ve got some purifying drops so we can refill it,” Stiles announced.

Allison nodded and offered Stiles the bottle. He took it, halting when Allison snatched his wrist, turning it over to look at the thick welt on the back of his hand.

“Tracker jackers,” Stiles explained, pulling his hand away and shoving the water bottle back in his backpack. Allison opened her mouth to speak – eyes wide with panic – when Stiles assured her, “I’m fine.”

Allison looked up at him, her dark eyes shimmering with worry.

“We should get going,” Stiles encouraged.

Allison sighed heavily. “There’s a water source about ten minutes ahead.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

Stiles stayed behind her, following her cautious steps as she wove her way silently though the undergrowth. She walked like a hunter, stalking through the forest as if she owned the place.

It was just like all the times they had gone hunting back in District Twelve, only - - this time - - Scott wasn’t with them. But the familiarity made him feel safe.

Allison raised her hand and Stiles stopped behind her, watching as she notched an arrow and raised her bow. She pulled the string taut and aimed it at the figure by the embankment.

The mysterious figure was hunched over by the riverside like an animal, his hand cupped and lifting water to his lips. His broad shoulders shifted slightly with his movements. His clothes were torn, exposing the bruises and gashes of bloody flesh – evidence of his pervious violent fights, He rose to his feet, spreading his stance to balance in the muddy embankment. He was brandishing an axe, the sharp blade gleaming as he turned to face the two of them.

Glistening green eyes grew wide and white.

His fingers twitched on the handle of the axe as if he was regretting the encounter or dreading the thought of a fight.

Stiles rested his hand against Allison’s bicep and she lowered the bow in response.

Derek relaxed, his broad shoulders dropping. He nodded in recognition.

The moment of peace was short lived.

A sharp whistle broke through the air.

Derek flinched as something small struck his throat.

In one swift motion, Allison turned and let her arrow fly.

A strong-built boy fell from the boughs of a tree with a strangled cry, striking the ground as a cannon fired.

Stiles turned his eyes back to Derek who cringed as his plucked the dart from his neck. A ruby-red drop of blood fell from the broken skin where the barb penetrated his neck. Derek blinked heavily, swaying slightly as the small dart fell from his fingers. It struck the ground, stirring the leaves.

Derek toppled backwards. His body slid down the muddy embankment, consumed by the dark water of the river. The foaming waves towed him beneath the tide.

“Derek!” Stiles screamed, dropping his bag at the foot of the tree and sprinting forward.  He dove into the water. Behind him, he heard Allison scream his name, but her cry was muffled by the water. He dove down to the bottom of the creek, sliding his arm under Derek’s chest. He braced his feet against the rocky bottom and pushed up towards the surface, kicking as hard as he could. He dragged the both of them to the surface, bursting into the open air and gasping.

The water knocked them about a little, but Stiles did the best he could to stay afloat.

“Stiles?” Allison called.

“I’m okay,” he replied, gasping and sputtering as he adjusted his grip on Derek to hold his chin above the water.

“Just drop me and run,” Derek growled, spitting water from his mouth.

“You could be a little more grateful, you know, I’m only keeping you alive,” Stiles barked, sputtering out mouthfuls of water as he struggled to hold the larger man above the tide.

“Why?” Derek asked. “You could drop me right now and eliminate one more threat.”

“You have given me no reason to see you as a threat,” Stiles replied. “And maybe I’m repaying you for how many times you’ve saved me. Maybe I’m thanking you for helping Allison. Maybe I just like you. So shut up and accept the fact that I’m saving you.”

They dipped beneath the water. Stiles fought back, lifting them back above the tide.

“Allison?” Stiles called, spitting out mouthfuls of water. “How bad is it?”

Allison crept closer to the embankment and collected the small dart off the bed of littered leaves. She sniffed at the tip.

“Paralysis dart,” she announced. “Small dosage. It’ll wear off in a few minutes. Obviously his resources were limited so he used enough to render you helpless just long enough to kill.”

She shouldered her bow and reached out over the rippling sheets of black water.

Stiles thrashed about as he swam closer to her, shifting Derek into her hands and helping Allison lift him out of the water.

“Who was that?” Stiles asked as she laid the man down on the embankment.

She watched Stiles waded out of the water and trudged over to their side.

“Jackson Whittemore,” Allison replied. “District Three.”

“The creepy guy with the spiky hair?”

“Yeah,” Allison confirmed. “He specialised in toxins and paralysis darts during training.”

Stiles knelt beside Derek, shoving his hands into the backpack that Allison had brought over. He pulled out the small plastic bag and grabbed a handful of plump green leaves.

“Will these help?” he asked Allison.

She glanced from the leaves to Stiles, her brow furrowed in confusion as to why he was helping a Career.

“Allison,” Stiles snapped, shaking her out of her trance.

“They should.”

Stiles put a few in his mouth, chewing them before spitting the mushy green paste into his hand and smearing it across the firm tendons of Derek’s neck. His fingers lingered on the older boy’s warm flesh, feeling the drumming of his pulse and the rumble of his voice.

“Just leave me,” Derek growled through gritted teeth.

“Shut up and rest,” Stiles ordered.

He sat back on a cushion of leaves.

They sat there for a while, listening to the soft lapping of the waves. Stiles filled the water bottle and added the purifying drops, setting it aside so that they would take effect. He burrowed through his bag and pulled out the bread, crackers and apples, slicing them with his knife and offering them around.

Derek’s fingers twitched but he couldn’t move his arms. Stiles crawled over to his side. He helped him sit upright and eat, tearing off chunks of bread and using his hunting knife to slice up an apple and feed it to the older boy, despite Derek’s protests.

 “This is humiliating,” Derek growled.

“Shut up and accept it,” Stiles whispered.

He glanced up, ready to challenge Derek’s glare, but was met with nothing but admiration and gratefulness in the glimmering depths.

Derek grunted every now and then as jolts of electricity shot through his nerves and feeling returned to his limbs.

After a while Derek was back on his feet, stretching his limbs and swinging his axe to test his muscles, mobility and strength.

“Why are you helping him?” Allison whispered, watching Derek’s every movement as if he were going to turn and kill them any second.

“Why not?”

“Stiles, you know how the Games go. Everyone tries to kill everyone. You can’t trust anyone.”

“I trust him. He hasn’t tried to kill me. You haven’t either,” Stiles challenged. His voice trailed off as he added, “In fact, he’s only ever saved me.”

Allison looked at Stiles suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Something,” Stiles confessed. “I’m just trying to work out whether it happened or whether it was a hallucination because of the tracker jackers.”

“What is it?” Allison encouraged.

Stiles watched Derek’s elegant movements, his firm muscles flexing with every motion, His golden skin shifted like a blanket across his sculpted body.

He tried to remember the tenderness of his touch and the warmth of his lips, trying to find something in the memory that confirmed whether or not it was real.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles dismissed.

Allison opened her mouth to protest but was silenced by the rustle of the trees.

Allison and Derek leapt into action, weapons at the ready. Stiles scurried to his feet and grabbed the bag, bracing himself to run.

“I told you I’d find you, Twelve,” a low voice rumbled through the shadows.

“Oh no,” Stiles gasped, slinking back.

Ennis emerged from the dark depths of the forest, his heavy shoulders heaving with savage breaths and eyes burning with rage and wild bloodlust. He stalked towards Stiles like a crazed animal. He readjusted his grip on his spear and hurled it towards the boy.

Allison shoved her friend aside, drawing an arrow and firing it in one smooth motion.

The arrow tore into Ennis’ shoulder, making him cry out as he stumbled backwards. He vanished into the shadows of the bushes, Derek hot on his heels.

“Stiles,” Allison whimpered, her voice weak with shock.

Something was wrong.

Stiles felt a chill roll down his spine as he turned his eyes to her.

Her dark brown eyes were misted with tears as her slender fingers coiled around the thick pole that jutted out of her chest.

“No,” Stiles cried as she drew it out of her body.

Streams of thick blood gushed from the wound.

She whimpered and choked on her breath, collapsing to the ground.

Stiles sprinted to her side, dropping to his knees and lifting her into his arms.

“No, no, no,” he pleaded, pressing his hand to the gaping wound. Streams of hot, sticky blood spilled over his trembling hands.

Crystal-like tears streaked her cheeks, clearing away the dirt and grime that smeared her face.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered, his voice scratching at his throat as he stroked the dark waves of her hair. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry.”

“Stiles,” she rasped. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay,” Stiles stammered.

“It’s okay,” Allison repeated, assuring him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Heavy tears broke past the bars of Stiles’ eyelashes, splashing against the pale skin of her cheeks.

“Stiles, listen to me. You have to win. You have to survive this. Promise me you’ll make it through this.”

“I’ll try. I promise I’ll try,” Stiles whispered breathlessly.

Her breathing was shallow, frail wisps of air that passed her trembling lips. Allison shuddered in his arms, coughing and gasping for air. Blood dripped across her lips.

“Sing to me,” she pleaded. “Please.”

“I can’t sing.”

“You used to sing for your mother,” Allison reminded him. Her dark eyes looked up at him pleadingly.

His mouth was dry and his throat hurt. His vision was streaked by tears that he desperately tried to blink away. He sniffed back his sobs and hummed the soft melody. His voice was hoarse as he began to sing quietly, just for her.

 

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when they again open, the sun will rise._

The words seemed to flow from his lips. Quiet but natural, just like they had years ago when he sat by his mother’s bedside and sang her to sleep.

He took Allison’s hand in his, gently stroking the ball of his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles.

She weakened in his hold, her body growing cold. He tried to ignore it, tried to hold onto those precious last moments.  

 

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again its morning, they wash away._

 

Her breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered shut. She seemed to relax, falling still in Stiles’ arms.

 

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

 

Her hand struck the ground as a cannon fired overhead, followed by a second blast.

Stiles held Allison close to his chest. His weak arms strained to hold her dead weight. He cried violently, uglily, and he didn’t care if there were a million cameras pointed at him in that moment. He didn’t care how many people were watching.

He cried.

He cried for the friend he had lost.

He cried for Chris who would never see his daughter again.

He cried for Scott who he had failed, the friend who had lost the love of his life.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, splashing against Allison’s ghostly-pale skin.

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and set her down on the grass, carefully lowering her body among the wavering blades.

He stepped away from her, crawling about the undergrowth to pick bouquets of flowers: white roses, pale daisies, veined lilies, budding lavender, strands of wolfsbane, and whatever other blossoms he could find. He set them down on the ground around her still body.

The leaves crunched behind him as heavy footsteps scurried towards him.

 _Kill me_ , Stiles begged silently.

But his wish was left unanswered as the footsteps scurried away.

He continued to lay the flowers around her, positioning the stalks under her body in order to keep them upright.

He collected a small bouquet of flowers and laid them beneath her slender hands.

The footsteps returned, closer and slowing as the person stopped beside him. They knelt down in the damp grass.

Stiles glanced up.

Derek.

Stiles watched, unsure of what the teenager was doing.

Stiles wasn’t sure whether he should yell at him and shove him away, or sit still and watch him. Part of him was glad that Derek hadn’t left him alone, but at the same time part of him wanted to keep Allison all to himself.

His bright amber eyes watched the boy’s gentle movements as Derek reached forward and wove stands of wolfsbane and small daisies into Allison’s braided hair.

“She didn’t deserve this,” Derek whispered, voice quiet as his soft eyes looked at Allison’s face.

They sat in silence.

Stiles noticed the glistening tear that rolled down Derek’s cheek.

Stiles inhaled deeply and leant forward, untying the cord of her necklace. He sat back, wrapping the leather band around his wrist. Derek reached over. His nimble fingers tied a knot and secured it in place.

Derek rose to his feet, collecting his axe as he did. He stepped aside and waited for Stiles, head bowed in respect.

The boy leant forward and pressed another soft kiss to Allison’s forehead. He rose to his feet, turning about until he noticed the slight shimmer of a camera set among the trees. He faced it, pressing three fingers to his lips before raising his arm into the air. The funeral salute of District Twelve.

It was a thank you.

It was a sign of admiration.

It was goodbye to someone you love.

It was everything he needed to say to Allison and about her, but couldn’t.

It was the only way he could show that she was gone, but she would never forgotten.

He lowered his hand and sighed, turning to face Derek. Out the corner of his eye he noticed the glittering silver spear.

He could use it. He could fight to survive.

Derek watched him, pale eyes focused on the boy as Stiles turned away from the blood-soaked spear and looked deep into the forest.

“We should keep moving,” Derek whispered.

Stiles’ eyes snapped to him, his head tilted in confusion. “We?”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Why not? I’d be dead in hours. Less trouble for you.”

“You owe it to Allison to at least try and survive this,” Derek whispered. “Besides, I don’t want you to die.”


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles followed Derek’s cautious footfalls among the undergrowth. His eyes were focused on the older boy’s shiny leather boots. His eyes rolled over the plants. Ferns, weeds, low growing bushes and shrubs. Stiles stalled, his feet falling still among the littered leaves.

Derek noticed, stopping and turning to watch as Stiles knelt down and collected a handful of thick, black berries from a small bush.

“What are they?” Derek asked, his eyes focused on the boy’s slender hands.

“Poisonous,” Stiles answered. He rose to his feet and held one berry up towards Derek. Stiles stared him in the eye as pressed the plump berry against the chapped skin of his lips.

“No,” Derek cried, darting forward, ready to smack the berry from Stiles’ hand.

Stiles took a step back, berry still perched on his lip. “Tell me, why are you so interested in keeping me alive?”

“What?”

“When the Games began, you, Boyd and Erica stopped Ennis from killing me – and, because of that, they died. Then you saved me from Kali. You gave me leaves to counteract the venom from the tracker jacker stings. You gave me food and water. You kept Allison alive. You hunted down Ennis just then, and now you’re protecting me. Why?”

Derek pursed his lips, his face void of any expression.

Stiles pushed the berry closer to his mouth.

Derek flinched.

“Why, Derek?” Stiles insisted.

“Allison,” Derek muttered. “When we were in training, she and I made an alliance. I promised I’d help you if the two of you got separated in the arena.”

“Well, she’s dead now and you’ve held up your end of the bargain, so why are you still here?”

“Why did you save me from drowning?” Derek countered.

“Because,” Stiles replied bluntly.

“Because why?”

“Because maybe I like you,” Stiles blurted out. “Because maybe in another time and place we could have been friends.” He pushed the berry closer to his mouth. “So, why are you still here?”

“Because I want to be friends.”

“We can’t be friends!” Stiles cried. “Even if we do survive this and become friends, eventually it will only be the two of us in the arena and only one of us walks out of here alive, Derek. And I can tell you right now it’s not going to be me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t!” Stiles cried. “I can’t fight. I’m not strong enough to defend myself either. And most of all, I’m not worth it. So, go on then-” He opened his arms as if to welcome an attack. “-kill me or I’ll kill myself,” he threatened, pressing the berry back to his lips.

“Do that and I will follow you to hell, just so I can beat some sense into you and prove how much of an idiot you’re being.”

Stiles narrowed his glare and pushed the berry into his mouth.

Derek dropped his weapon.

He leapt forward and wrestled Stiles to the ground. He clamped his hands around the boy’s throat.

Stiles gasped for air, coughing and whimpering. He clawed at Derek’s arms with his blunt nails.

Derek shoved his fingers in the boy’s mouth and pulled out the berry.

He pinned Stiles’ arms to the ground, checking that the skin of the berry hadn’t broken.

Stiles shoved him off, coughing and spluttering as he rolled onto his side. He dragged his body across the dirt, towards the berry bush.

Derek hurled his axe at the boy, the gleaming blade striking the ground millimetres before Stiles’ fingertips.

Stiles froze, staring at the dishevelled reflection on the gleaming metal.

He ran his fingers across the mirror-like blade. He was barely recognisable: his eyes were circled by black from the sleepless nights, his irises were darkened by fear and hopelessness, his hair was dirty and unkempt, and his moonlight pale skin was smeared with dirt and blood.

“You promised,” Derek growled from behind Stiles. “You promised her you’d survive this.”

Stiles rolled onto his back, defeated, and buried his face in his hands. He let out a heart-breaking wail, tears caressing his skin and striking the cold earth.

Derek shuffled closer, pulling Stiles off of the ground and into his arms. He held the boy against his chest, cradling the back of his head as his body shuddered with violent sobs.

Stiles grabbed at fistfuls of the older boy’s shirt, burying his face in the curve of his neck and crying like the child he was.

Derek held him close, whispering soft words of comfort to Stiles until he settled. He sat the boy up, steadying him. He waited for a second before rising to his feet.

Stiles watched as Derek tugged the axe from the earth and tightened his grip on it.

Stiles rose to his feet. He crept over to the berry bush and plucked a few plump black ones.

“Stiles,” Derek growled warningly.

“They might come in handy,” Stiles replied, shoving the berries into his pocket before rising to follow Derek.

A sound stirred in the shadows. Stiles turned towards it.

Derek glanced from the boy to where he was looking. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

It grew louder, the pained wail of a young boy.

Stiles’ heart sunk. His stomach rose into this throat. The air was knocked from his lungs as the scream tore through him.

“Screaming,” he muttered weakly.

There it was: the same cry he had woken to for many nights when the boy first moved into their house, when nightmares had haunted everyone in their household. The distorted, gut-wrenching wail he had heard outside the Justice Building, the last sound he heard in District Twelve.

Stiles turned towards the sound, his thick books kicking up clumps of dirt as he raced forward.

“Isaac? Isaac!” he called, sprinting deeper into the forest. He wove through the trees, calling for the boy.

_How did they get him? Why did they bring him here?_

Tears welled in his eyes as his mind began to reel through all the haunting possibilities.

“Stiles,” Derek called after him.

He stopped in the centre of a small clearing, listening as the screams swirled around him and faded into the shadows.

Derek burst through the bushes behind him and ran up to his side. He grabbed Stiles’ arm.

“Isaac isn’t here,” Derek reminded the boy.

“I heard him,” Stiles sobbed, worried eyes darting about their surroundings.

Another scream broke through the quiet bush.

Derek wheeled around, sharp eyes piercing the bushes.

“Cora?” he yelled.

Derek tore off through the forest, his figure bleeding into the shadows as he ducked between the ever-watching birch trees and thick pines.

Stiles chased after his silhouette. His feet tumbled beneath him as he followed Derek into another clearing.

He grabbed the older boy’s arm, stopping him.

“Where is she?” Derek huffed.

Stiles caught sight of the flittering black bird among the foliage. His eyes darted about the undergrowth. He grabbed a rock and hurled it at the bird.

It struck the jabberjay, knocking it from the sky. The bird fell to the ground. The scream died away as its body twitched and the life drained from its corpse.

“It’s a jabberjay,” Stiles explained. “It wasn’t real.”

Derek looked disheartened as he replied, “Jabberjays _copy_.”

“It’s not real,” Stiles repeated. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince: Derek or himself. “It’s just another trick: a sick joke. It’s-”

Stiles was silenced as the screams returned.

They multiplied, intensified, filling their ears with the sounds of screaming loved ones: Isaac, Scott, Allison, Melissa, his father, his mother, and the screams of those who Derek loved and hundreds of others they didn’t know.

Derek dropped his axe and cupped his hands over his ears. Stiles did the same. But it had no effect, the piercing screeches and broken wails crippled them.

They dropped to their knees, pained screams falling from their own lips.

The tides of birds swarmed around them, feathers raining over them.

They collapsed to the ground and the birds followed suit, swooping down at them. Sharp beaks and jagged talons tore open exposed flesh and shredded their clothes.

Stiles opened his eyes, squinting. He ignored his own pain and focused on Derek’s face: contorted with agony as glistening tears fell from his eyes.

Stiles dropped his hand away from his ear, the deafening noise rattling his bones as he reached across the withering carcases of littered leaves. He laid his hand atop of Derek’s, pressing it down against his ear but letting the boy know he was there.

Clear eyes looked at him.

Tears and blood streaked their cheeks.

It went on for what seemed like hours.

The light strobed as shadows passed over their faces. The noises drowned out everything else, a dull roar that numbed them. The screams no longer affected them, nor did the warm streams of blood that covered their bodies.

Finally, it ceased.

The roar of the screams died away as the birds dropped to the ground and everything fell still. The lifeless carcases were spread around them in a blanket of raven-black feathers and twitching limbs.

Stiles’ ears were screaming. He blinked past the haze, eyes focusing on Derek’s face. Thick gashes were torn out of his cheeks and his features creased with pain.

Tears streaked their cheeks as they laid there: cold, unmoving and broken.

From beyond the unending pitched screaming, Stiles could hear the light twinkle of a care package. Stiles turned his weary eyes towards the overhanging foliage where a small light blinked through the strobing light that broke through the foliage. The parcel drifted down towards them on its parachute.

Stiles gasped and groaned as he rolled onto his front and lifted himself onto his elbows. He dragged himself towards the package, his body dragging through the dead leaves and masses of bird carcasses behind him. He collapsed before the package, the blood-soaked leaves clinging to his skin. His hands trembled as he reached for the pack. He flicked open the latch and the lid cracked open to reveal a small bottle of golden liquid and a note.

Stiles’ fingers felt swollen and sore as he grabbed the note, groaning as the strain tore through his muscles. He blinked heavily, trying to focus on the thin black lettering.

 

DRINK UP, KID.

\- PETER

 

Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle.

He grabbed the small bottle and dragged himself back to Derek’s side.

Derek was sitting up, one steadying himself and the other pressed to his pounding forehead.

Stiles dragged himself upright and unscrewed the lid of the bottle. He held it out for Derek.

“Drink,” he rasped.

Derek lifted his stunning hazel eyes to Stiles’. He ignored the boy’s instructions, reaching forward to wipe away the small trail of vibrant red blood that streamed from his ears, rolling across his cheek and mingling with the streaks from his other bleeding wounds.

“I’m fine,” Stiles dismissed. He held the drink up before Derek’s face. “Drink.”

Derek shook his head, slowly. “It’s your care package.”

“I’m not drinking any of it until you drink some,” Stiles croaked, his voice scratching at his dry throat.

“No,” Derek mumbled, eyes brightening as he slowly regained his senses.

“Don’t be a child, Derek. Drink.”

“No.”

“I’ll slap you,” Stiles threatened.

Derek looked Stiles up and down and raised his brow questioningly.

“That’s not much of a threat,” Derek replied.

Stiles glared at him. “Just drink the damn thing.”

“You first.”

Stiles sighed in defeat and took a swig of the liquid. He swallowed hard and handed over the bottle.

Derek drank.

He coughed and sputtered, screwing his face up in disgust.

Stiles clamped his hand around Derek’s mouth before he could spit it out.

“Swallow,” Stiles instructed.

Derek obeyed, wincing as the bitter liquid slid down his throat. He coughed and spluttered.

“That’s revolting. How could you drink that with a straight face?”

“Two reasons: firstly, I’ve had to drink and eat stuff a lot worse than that in District Twelve, and secondly, I know – from experience – that you wouldn’t have drunk it if I pulled the face you just did.”

Derek nodded in admission.

Stiles clapped his hand against the larger boy’s shoulder. “Let’s get moving.”

The two boys staggered to their feet. They took a second to orientate themselves before planning to head for the caves by the creek.

Stiles took one step forwards and toppled to the ground.

Derek bounded to his side. Stiles waved him off, saying he’s fine as he collapsed to the cold earth again. Derek gently grabbed his arm and helped the smaller boy to his feet. He lifted Stiles’ scrawny arm over his shoulders and supported his weight.

The two grunted as they hobbled through the darkening shadows of the forest, dusk rolling in on their heels.


	14. Chapter 14

They hobbled into a nearby cave. Derek carefully lowered Stiles onto the cold ground. He checked the boy over for any serious injuries before shrugging off his shredded backpack and pulling out his sleeping bag. He unzipped it completely and laid it across the ground. He reached across the small cave, gently grasped Stiles’ shoulder and rolled the small boy onto the blanket.

Stiles let out a small whimper.

“You okay?” Derek whispered, stroking aside a strand of hair that clung to the boy’s bloodied forehead.

“How many are left?” Stiles asked weakly.

“I’ve lost count.”

Stiles struggled with his bag. Derek reached forward and helped him slide his frail arms out of the straps.

“Leaves. Cuts,” Stiles muttered.

“You really need some sleep,” Derek whispered.

“Treat your wounds first,” Stiles instructed.

Derek picked up the bag and rummaged through it. He found the small bag of leaves and pulled a few from the packet. He tossed a few in his mouth and crushed them between his teeth. He chewed on them for a moment, watching Stiles with concern as the boy swayed about, his dark eyes blinking heavily. Derek spat the pureed pulp into his hand and smeared it across his smaller wounds before reaching forward and lifting the boy’s frail limbs to do the same.

“Sleeping bag. Blanket,” Stiles slurred.

Derek pulled out the other sleeping bag, unzipping it and laying it across the boy.

Stiles held up the edge of the plush fabric.

Derek looked at him, confused.

“Sleep,” Stiles mumbled.

He laid down and rolled towards Stiles, shuffling under the blanket and pulling the boy into his warmth.

Stiles chuckled quietly.

“What?” Derek whispered.

“I just realised something,” Stiles rasped.

Derek lowered his eyes to the boy’s face, lifting his brow quizzically.

“My mentor just lost a bet. I survived longer than a day.” Stiles pulled the small note out of his pocket and showed Derek. “And to add insult to injury, he had to send me the care package.”

Derek chuckled quietly.

There was a moment of quiet between them. They both wanted to talk about what had happened, but no one knew how to broach the topic.

Stiles broke the silence.

“Who’s Cora?” he asked cautiously.

“My sister,” Derek replied, sitting up and rummaging through the backpack. He pulled out a bottle of water. His hands trembled slightly as he unscrewed the cap and took a few sips before offering it to Stiles.

Stiles shook his head. “Older?”

“Younger,” Derek corrected. “Drink.”

Stiles complied, letting Derek sit him upright and hold the bottle to his lips. He sipped at the water.

Derek continued, “There was three of us; my older sister Laura, me and little Cora.”

“Was?”

“They died in a fire.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered.

“Don’t be.” Derek settled back against the rocky wall of the cave, his bright eyes focused on the world beyond the cave.

Stiles curled up beneath the blanket, watching Derek with dreary eyes.

“I’ll never understand how you could do it,” Derek whispered.

“Do what?”

“Volunteer.”

Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

“You volunteered,” he reminded the older boy.

“I volunteered in hopes that it would get me killed, because I have nothing to lose and nothing left to live for. You, however… You have so much to lose, and yet you still volunteered for your friend.”

“Our families need Scott. He can hunt and forage. He can get them food and help them through the year. He can care for Isaac in ways that I can’t. He can keep them safe and alive. Me?” Stiles fell quiet. He dropped his eyes to the floor of the cave. “I can’t do any of that. They don’t need me. Being sent into the Games was probably the best thing I could do for them.”

“You know that’s not true,” Derek whispered.

“It is,” Stiles muttered, curling upon himself. “I’m a nuisance. Just another mouth to feed.”

“I’m sure they don’t see it that way.”

“My mother thought I was trying to kill her. Melissa and my dad said it was because she was sick and she wasn’t in her right mind, but that didn’t change anything. When she died a few months later, my dad turned to alcohol and drank himself into a rage over and over. He reminded me every night that it had been my fault, that my mum was dead because of me.” He rubbed his tears away with the sleeve of his jacket. “He said it so often that I started to believe it, no matter what Scott or his mum said.” Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest. “That’s when the nightmares started. As if daily life wasn’t bad enough, it’d play over and over in my head: horrific images that would have me screaming myself awake... I guess that’s why the jabberjays and the tracker jackers didn’t affect me as much as they did you; I’ve heard those screams every day.”

The night sky lit up, the dreadful Capitol anthem ringing in their ears.

Stiles cringed. He grunted as he sat up and crept towards the mouth of the cave.

“Don’t, Stiles,” Derek called over the noise.

“I have to,” Stiles replied. “I want to see her face one last time.”

Derek fell silent, watching the boy as he slumped against the arching rock.

Stiles eyes glittered as he stared up at the images cast across the artificial sky.

The monstrous face of Ennis flashed over the ceiling, his portrait framed by the bold lettering of ‘District 1’.

 _Thank God_ , Stiles thought to himself, letting out a sigh of relief.

The image faded, replaced by the photo of Jackson Whittemore, ‘District 3’. Stiles snarled, waiting for the image to fade. Next was the boy from District Four, Liam. He had chestnut brown hair and a youthful face. Next was another young boy, the tribute from District Seven, Theo. And finally the glowing lettering of ‘District 12’ lit up the sky, framing the beautiful portrait of Allison. Her expression confident and eyes focused, just how Stiles would remember her.

The lights faded and the anthem died away into the shadows of the night. Stiles became aware of the fact that he was crying, cooled by the night air as they fell from his eyes. He wiped them away and crawled back into the cave.

Derek shuffled closer, pulling Stiles into his arms.

Stiles didn’t fight it. He fell against the larger boy’s warmth, letting Derek pull him into his comforting embrace.

Stiles forgot where they were and why they were here, losing himself in the security and safety of Derek’s hold.

After a moment, Stiles pulled back, looking at Derek with a suspicious glare.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked.

“I can’t remember if it was real,” Stiles muttered.

“If what was real?”

Stiles shook his head and sat back against the cave wall. “It’s nothing… Just tracker jackers.”

“I might not know everything, but if you’re unsure of something, you can always ask,” Derek whispered.

“There were birds that dropped stuff – like bloody viscera – all over me,” Stiles started, cautiously watching Derek’s gaze for any glimpse of mockery or disbelief. “Real or not real?”

Derek thought about it for a moment. “As far as I know, not real; I didn’t see any birds and you were only covered in mud and bites when I found you.”

Stiles nodded. He scratched at the back of his hand absentmindedly. “The fauna growing through my skin, real or not real?”

“Not real,” Derek replied.

“Kali attacking us, real or not?”

“Real.”

“She’s gone, right?” Stiles asked. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I remember the slide show but it’s a little foggy.”

“She’s gone,” Derek assured him.

“You, um…” Stiles couldn’t look Derek in the eye. A hot blush burnt at his cheeks as he fumbled about with his words. He had to ask. “You kissed me, real or not real?”

Derek was quiet for a moment.

Stiles tried to steady his breathing, his heart pounding against his ribs. His throat was dry and scratchy as he swallowed hard against the rising bile. Tears of fear and shame brewed in his eyes.

 _Oh God, what if it wasn’t real?_ Stiles panicked. _What if it didn’t happen? Oh God, he’s going to think I’m a creep._

Derek’s lips trembled as he fought back his shame.

“Real,” Derek admitted.

Stiles sighed, relieved of an unbearable weight.

“You like me, real or not real?”

“Real,” Derek replied without a beat of hesitation.

“Would you do it again?” Stiles asked. “Would you kiss me again?”

Derek met his eye and smirked.

Stiles laughed, blushing as he dropped his gaze.

Derek crept forward and pressed a tender kiss to the soft tussled hair atop the crown of Stiles’ head.

“Maybe when we’re feeling better,” he whispered as if it were a promise. “For now, you should get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll head to the cornucopia. If anyone’s left they’ll be there scavenging food and supplies.”

Stiles nodded, shuffling forward and laying beneath the blanket of their makeshift bed.

Stiles patted the space beside him and Derek crawled in behind him.

Stiles shuffled back into Derek’s warmth, heavy eyes fluttering shut.

Derek’s arm fell around the boy’s slender waist, laying his other arm beneath Stiles’ head as a pillow. Stiles nuzzled his face into the man’s bicep, eyelids weighed down by lethargy as they fell into the dark abyss of sleep.

Derek settled in, spooning the boy beneath the soft blanket. He felt Stiles shiver as the cold rolled over his skin. The hairs on Stiles’ arms rose and Derek tried to share his warmth the best he could. He wanted to roll over and blanket Stiles with his own warmth but his weight would most likely crush the fragile boy.

Derek felt the soft tufts of Stiles’ hair brush against the muscle of his bicep as he curled into the man’s warmth, his soft, sleepy breath rolling across the smooth skin of Derek’s arm.

He tucked Stiles in closer, feeling his heartbeat press against the palm of the hand he held against the boy’s chest. He nestled his face into the curve of the boy’s neck, letting sleep consume him as he found himself falling into a strange – but welcome – sense of comfort and love.


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles and Derek trudged through the forest, their heavy footsteps no longer cautious or predatory. They were silent, not talking about the heart-to-heart they had had last night or the fact that they had slept together.

Stiles’ ears still rang, blood pounding painfully against his ear drum and drowning out most of the noise around him.

Derek turned to the boy.

“Stiles,” he whispered, craning his neck to look the boy in the eye. “Are you okay?”

“Allison’s dead,” the boy croaked. “Now, I guess the only good thing is it looks like I’m going to die too.”

“You’re not going to die,” Derek replied.

“I’m not coming out of these Games, Derek.”

“We’ll see. Come on,” Derek dismissed. He slowed as the approached the tree line. He glanced out into the open field, his piercing hazel eyes surveying the area for any threats. He turned and nodded to Stiles and slowly stepped out of the shadows of the tree line and walking over to the cornucopia.

“Get to the high ground,” Derek instructed, watching Stiles’ back as they crossed the field. They passed the podiums on which they had started the Games.

Derek lowered his axe and helped Stiles climb up onto the roof of the cornucopia.

They listened to the quiet rustle of the trees and chirping birds.

Silence.

“It’s just us,” Stiles whispered.

“It’s not as if we didn’t know this was coming,” Derek reminded him. Derek dropped his weapon, the metal grip and axe blade clattering as it struck the roof of the cornucopia.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked, his voice breaking slightly with the strain.

“You have someone to go home to. You deserve this victory.” Derek spread his arms, exposing his chest as an open target. “Go ahead, kill me.”

Tears prickled Stiles’ eyes as he shook his head.

“It never would have worked,” Derek sighed. “If – somehow – we both survive this, I’d go back to Two and you’d go back to Twelve. We’d never be together.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles sobbed, streaming tears clearing away the dirt on his face. “I’m not going to kill you, Derek. This is _our_ victory. It’s what you trained for. It’s what you deserve.”

“I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Stiles froze. His body shuddered as tears rolled down his freckled cheeks. He blinked heavily, crystal-like droplets falling from the tip of his chin. The falling tears crashed against the roof of the cornucopia. He sniffed back the tears, trying as hard as he could to regain his composure.

“I won’t do it,” he said firmly.

“Stiles,” Derek started slowly.

“No,” Stiles interrupted, burying his hand in the pocket of his jacket to pull out a small handful of plump berries. He glanced down at them and let his breath fall from his lungs. He brought his hand to his mouth.

“No!” Derek howled, sprinting across the cornucopia to Stiles’ side. He grabbed the boy’s wrists, pulling his hand away from his mouth. He pinned Stiles’ slender body against the metal plating of the roof.

Stiles let out a surprised yelp. Burning pain radiated out from where Derek held down his arm. Stiles let out a frustrated cry, desperately trying to hold his fist shut.

“Drop them,” Derek ordered.

Stiles winced. He gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“Drop them!”

The smaller boy let out a heartbroken wail as the berries fell out of his hand. They padded across the roof, thumping the metal sheeting as they rolled away from his reach.

Stiles kicked about helplessly. His heavy boots thumped the roof of the cornucopia as he tried without success to break free of Derek’s hold. He let out a gut-wrenching cry before collapsing back against the buckling metal sheet. His body shuddered with tears.

Derek lifted the boy’s limp body up into his arms. He patted at the soft mess of Stiles’ unkempt hair and whispered sweetly to the boy, holding him close in the warmth and security of his arms. Derek was scared to let him go.

Stiles clawed at his jacket, his tears seeping through the torn fabric and dampening his shirt or rolling across his skin. He inhaled the older boy’s scent, the soft musk and natural sweetness of pines that clung to his skin. It was a strange comfort, but it calmed him.

Reluctantly, Derek set the boy down on the rooftop, sitting back to look Stiles in the eye. He opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by a sharp whistle.

Derek’s body jolted. He choked on his breath, coughing and sputtering.

Stiles gasped, his breath caught in his throat as the world around him fell silent and Derek’s weight fell backwards.

The tidal wave of noise crashed over him as he caught sight of the arrow that stuck out of Derek’s chest.

“Derek!” Stiles cried. He scurried to Derek’s side, stripping off his jacket and pressing it against Derek’s wound.

“Derek, stay with me,” he pleaded, tears streaking his face.

The older boy’s breathing was shallow, his broken gasps gurgling as his body trembled. He lifted his hand to Stiles’, ignoring the blood that gushed from the where an arrow had penetrated his chest.

 “It’s okay,” Derek rasped.

“No, Derek, stay with me.”

A soft chuckle echoed through the air. Thick boots thumped against the metal plating.

Stiles lifted his eyes towards the approaching figure. Bright blue irises glared back at him.

Kate Argent.

“Sorry,” Kate said without the slightest hint of remorse in her voice. A cynical smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I had to take him out first or else I might have had a challenge on my hands.”

She raised her bow and let another arrow fly.

Stiles rolled to the side, the arrow striking the metal plating and clattering as it rolled to Stiles’ side. He picked it up and snapped it in half. He flourished the arrow’s tip like a knife, lunging forward and swinging at her.

She caught his hand, disarming him and planting her solid boot in his gut.

Stiles skidded across the roof, rolling across the smooth plating. He caught a hold of the edge and hurled himself back up. He stumbled a little, staggering and grunting in pain as he rose to his feet. He heaved in rugged breaths as tears fell from his eyes.

Kate’s glare was cold and her eyes were focused on his wrist.

“Where did you get that?” Kate growled.

Stiles looked down at what had caught her attention: Allison’s necklace.

“Where did you get it?!” Kate screamed.

“Allison,” Stiles answered.

“Where’d she get it?”

“What’s it to you?” Stiles yelled. Then it struck him. “Argent… That’s right, Chris had a sister. You were just a baby when he left District Two, weren’t you?”

“Shut up!” Kate shrieked. She lifted her crossbow and fired an arrow into Stiles’ leg.

Stiles let out an agonising cry as he collapsed to one knee. He tore the arrow from his thigh and glared up at her, panting ruggedly. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking his pant leg.

“Oh, darling,” Kate cooed. “Did you really think you stood a chance?”

“Chris, forgive me,” Stiles muttered to himself. He swallowed hard and raised his voice for Kate to hear. “These arrows are made in District Two,” Stiles announced, nodding towards the half in Kate’s hand. He reached for the other half of the broken shaft. “They’re colour coded for different uses: the red tips are for explosive, white tips are for normal, yellow are for flash bangs, and blue are for electrical ones that have a charge beneath the tip that top three hundred volts. They’re all used in different ways, but – aside from the normal ones – they all have a trigger mechanism beneath the tip with wiring running down shaft, specialised for detonating at the optimal time to stun, incapacitate, maim or kill your prey.”

 “You’re pretty smart. But what’s your point?”

Stiles shuffled over to Derek’s side and subtly reached into the bag behind him. His trembling fingers grabbed a hold of the water bottle. He unscrewed the lid until it sat loose and continued, “If the shaft of the coloured tips is broken then the circuit isn’t complete, which means it’s a live wire.”

“Is there a point to your rambling?” Kate asked, quickly losing her patience.

“Yeah. I’m distracting you,” Stiles admitted, hurling the bottle at her.

The cap fell off the bottle, leaving the water to spill from the bottle.

Kate instinctively moved to block the incoming projectile. She swung the broken arrow to deflect it, the live wires coming into contact with the water.

She let out a savage scream as the frayed wires sent a lethal amount of voltage through her body.

The bitter scent of charred hair, burning fibres and the strange scent of pears trailed through the air towards Stiles. The smell of seared hair and burnt flesh filled his nostrils.

He turned away and burying his face in Derek’s jacket, flinching as he heard her body thump against the ground and the thundering cannon fire overhead.

“Derek?” Stiles gasped, panicked.

 _Not him. Don’t let it be him_.

Stiles pressed his hands around the shaft of the arrow that protruded from Derek’s chest.

Derek groaned, his bright eyes fading as heavy eyelids threatened to fall shut. Speckles of blood were splattered across his lips, his golden skin growing pale as thick, red blood began to pool around the wound. The streams of blood dripped onto the metal plating of the roof, pooling around him. He wheezed, eyelids fluttering as he looked up at Stiles.

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles gasped. “Stay with me, Derek. Hold on.”

Derek’s head wavered slightly, his heavy eyes falling shut for a second.

“No, Derek! Keep your eyes open. Please. Stay with me.”

“You… deserve… to win,” Derek muttered between broken gasps. “Go home… to your family.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Stiles whispered. He bent forward and pressed a soft kiss against Derek’s forehead. “I love you.”

Tears glistened in Derek’s eyes as he returned Stiles’ loving gaze, unable to speak.

The world around them fell silent.

Stiles didn’t hear the cannon fire. He didn’t hear the Gamemakers announce him as victor. He didn’t hear the hovercraft as they entered the arena. He didn’t hear the peacekeepers drop onto the roof of the cornucopia, but he fought back as they tried to pull him away from Derek. His cries were drowned out among the mess of noise. He kicked and screamed, desperate to break free of their hold and return to Derek’s side. He thrashed about violently as the peacekeepers hurled him into the airship and flew him out of the arena. He collapsed against the floor of the hovercraft, sobbing violently as they flew him back to the Tribute Centre.


	16. Chapter 16

His eyes were hot and the need to cry was unbearable, but his tears had dried up.

The prep team had cleaned and preened him. Doctors had treated his injuries, lathering cream in the gaping wound the arrow had left in his thigh, healing the smaller cuts and dressing the larger wounds in bandages. They filled his damaged ear with some sort of liquid which stung before cooling and soothing the damage. When he drained the liquid and blood out of his ear, he realised that his hearing was impaired – dimmed, but not gone, thankfully. They took the boy’s arm and pushed a large needle through taut flesh, removing his tracking chip before finally leaving him alone in the cold grey room to wait for his stylist.

The silence screamed in his ears.

Stiles rubbed at his arm, absentmindedly scratching at the small bandage that covered the broken skin through which they had removed the chip. The muscles ached, adjusting to the strange loss, as if the chip should have been there – part of him.

Finally, the door opened.

Lydia pushed past Deaton, sprinting to the boy’s side and pulling him into her arms.

“Thank God,” she whispered, cupping the boy’s cheeks as glistening tears ran down her own.

“I lost,” Stiles muttered. He bit into his quivering lip, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I survived, but I lost him.”

Deaton rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I won’t tell you it’ll get better, but it will get easier,” Deaton promised.

“I killed someone, Deaton,” Stiles muttered. “I killed Allison’s aunt.”

“It’s understandable that you feel guilt. Your father raised you with good morals.”

“It’s more than guilt though. It’s like I lost something… some part of myself,” Stiles replied. He dropped his head.

“Chin up, love,” Lydia whispered, gently tapping Stiles’ chin with her finger.

Stiles turned his eyes to her, seeing his sorrow reflected in her glittering green eyes.

Deaton stepped forward, a bag of clothes draped over his arms. He laid it down on the bench next to the boy.

“Do I have to do this?” Stiles asked, almost pleading for another choice.

“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispered.

Stiles inhaled deeply.

“Okay,” he rasped. “Let’s get this over with.”

Deaton unzipped the large bag and helped Stiles lift his frail limbs and dress.

Deaton’s lean fingers helped him into a pale grey shirt and pressed pants. He looped a gold tie around the collar before pinning down the starch panels. He swiftly tied the soft silk tie into an eldredge knot, sliding it up to Stiles’ throat, but leaving it loose enough that the boy could breathe. The ensemble was completed by a mocha-brown vest and a disgustingly vibrant red jacket.

Stiles swallowed hard. It looked as if he had been rolled in blood, but he didn’t have it in him to protest.

Deaton seemed to notice. He helped the boy shrug off the jacket, offering him a crisp white jacket instead.

Stiles shrugged it on and tugged at the lapels to straighten it.

Deaton turned his attention to smaller details, folding a golden handkerchief and sliding it into his pocket. He gently slid Allison’s necklace down Stiles’ arm, feeling the boy flinch in fear it was going to be taken away. Deaton glanced up at the boy, his soft gaze calming the boy and reassuring him that no such thing would happen. Deaton lifted Stiles’ wrists and added two large diamond cufflinks to the cuffs of his dress shirt before taking a step back to have a look at the boy.

Deaton offered him a soft smile.

Stiles tried to return it, but couldn’t.

“Do I have to do this?” he asked again, his voice weak and body tired. He rose to his feet. “I hate talking about myself.”

“Just take it easy,” Lydia instructed. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Stiles let Lydia take his arm and walk him down the hallway.

Peter was waiting by the large doors, his crystal-blue eyes focused on the boy. He sighed, cold glare softening with pity and sorrow.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered, his nimble fingers fidgeting with the small pendant beneath his sleeve.

Stiles took a step forward, readying himself to step through the doors. He turned back to Peter. “You knew Derek, didn’t you?”

Peter sighed and nodded. “I did.”

“He was family, wasn’t he?” Stiles pushed.

Peter’s eyes dulled.

“He was,” he confessed. “He’s my nephew. But I gave up on my family years ago.”

Stiles felt as if he should say something, but Peter spoke before he had the chance.

“I left District Two after the house fire that killed my sister and my nieces,” Peter explained. “I didn’t know he had survived the fire.”

“I wish I could have told him you were,” Stiles whispered.

“He’d hate me for leaving.”

“I don’t think he would,” Stiles assured him.

Danny Māhealani’s voice silenced them. “Ladies and gentlemen, the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, the sweetheart from District Twelve: Stiles Stilinski.”

The doors opened and Stiles stepped into the blinding lights.

The crowds roared and Stiles waved to them. He didn’t try to put on a smile, instead trying to show his solemn expression off as a tough-guy appearance – or so he’d like to believe.

He joined Danny, shaking his hand before sitting down in the small, plush armchair.

“Stiles,” Danny started, his voice sadder than usual. “Before we start, I have to say that I am sorry for your loss.”

Stiles nodded. “Thank you.”

“But we’re all wondering, what was it like to meet someone and fall in love so quickly, only to lose him?”

Stiles swallowed hard. “It’s… indescribable. It was a strange sense of comfort in a place where you could swear you couldn’t trust anyone. I cannot describe what it was like to fall in love. But if it came to it, I would lay my life in his hands a million times over without any hesitation. To lose him…”

He couldn’t continue, brushing aside the tears that fell from his eyes.

“Do you think it ever would have worked out between the two of you?” Danny asked. “Him being from District Two and you from Twelve.”

“I would have liked to try,” Stiles replied.

“I’m sorry,” Danny whispered, leaning forward to rest his hand on Stiles’ arm. “I know it hurts, but can I ask you about Allison?”

Stiles nodded.

“What you did for her and Kira was honourable, something that has never happened before in the Games. No other tribute has ever taken the time to stay by the side of another tribute as they died, and never have they done something as selfless and… breathtakingly beautiful as you did.”

The screens around them lit up with the images of Kira laying among the glowing fungus with a bouquet in her hands and Allison laying among the white petals of lilies, velvety roses and stalks of lavender, with a crown of daises and wolfsbane woven around her head.

The crowd applauded, not the roar of joy but a clap of admiration and pride.

“I just have to ask,” Danny continued. “Why?”

“Because they deserved better. They weren’t weak – in fact, Allison was the strongest person I know and Kira was so brave for someone so young – and they don’t deserve to be shamed in their death.”

The applause grew louder. It seemed to drown out all other sound.

Stiles’ eyes were fixed on the photo of Allison.

The world around him seemed silent, as if he was beneath water.

His eyes were focused solely on Allison’s face, on how angelic and peaceful she looked in that moment.

The rest of the interview went smoothly, at least Stiles hoped it did: he didn’t remember much of it.

After he stepped offstage he was escorted back to his quarters: the twelfth floor.

“No more interviews, no more talking,” Stiles muttered as he stripped off his jacket and tie. He tossed them over the back of a chair on his way to his room.

Once inside, he shut the door and collapsed on the large bed. He wanted to cry, but he was too tired. He was frustrated that he couldn’t summon up the tears and just cry himself to sleep.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

“Go away, Lydia,” he groaned.

They knocked again.

“Leave me alone,” he shouted.

He turned and buried his face into the pillow, curling into the silky sheets.

Regardless of his wishes, the door slid open. Someone stepped into the room and shut the door being them. Soft footsteps crept across the carpeted floor to the side of the bed. The mattress bowed beside him as someone laid down next to him.

Stiles sat upright and turned on them. “I said to leave me alo-”

The words failed him as his eyes fell upon the glimmering aventurine irises that looked at him.

Derek raised his brow.

“Okay, I’ll leave then,” Derek whispered, his tone almost offended.

He sat upright and moved to get off the bed.

Stiles grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

Derek froze and turned back to face the boy, his bright eyes flitting from the boy’s hand to his face.

Stiles couldn’t stop staring at him, eyes wide with shock as he tried to work out if he was dreaming or seeing some sort of apparition. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but then again, he was so tired that he could have without knowing.

“This had better not be some sick joke,” Stiles muttered.

“It’s not,” Derek whispered.

“So this is real?” Stiles asked weakly.

Derek nodded.

Stiles squinted in confusion. He stared at Derek’s face, remembering how his rosy pink lips had been splattered in blood and his firm chest had been impaled by Kate’s arrow.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked, sitting back down on the mattress.

“I…” Stiles croaked. “I…”

The boy shook his head, unable to make sense of it all. His voice failed him as words rolled about in his head, meaningless and unable to for sentences. He gnawed at his lower lip until it was bright red, raw and threatened to draw blood.

“If you’re confused about something, you can ask,” Derek encouraged.

“The Games are over, real or not real?”

“Real,” Derek assured him.

“You’re alive,” Stiles started, voice strained and cautious. “Real or not real?”

“Real,” Derek whispered. He too Stiles’ hand from his wrist and pressed it to his chest.

Stiles felt the steady heartbeat pulse against the palm of his hand.

He sighed with relief. He lifted his eyes to meet Derek’s, his sparking amber irises filling with tears. His lips quivered as he rasped, “How?”

“The cannon never fired,” Derek whispered. “The fact that you stayed with me while I was dying and what you said started a riot in the Capitol and across the Districts. The Gamemakers were forced to get me out of the arena and into care. Apparently they had to pull you away so that the medical team could get to me.”

Stiles hung his head, hiding his blush in the shadows as he nodded.

Derek chuckled, leaning forward to press a tender kiss to the top of the boy’s head. “I’m honoured.”

Stiles looked up at him.

“You’re going back to District Two, aren’t you?”

“That’s the thing.” Derek sat back against the wall, smiling as Stiles shuffled into his arms. “You see, the Capitol has given us a choice: we can go back to our own Districts, you can live in District Two with me, or I can come and live with you in Twelve.”

Stiles looked up at him, his eyes sparling with pain. “Derek, Twelve is full people who suffer, people who starve. Unless you’ve grown up there, there’s no chance in hell you’ll survive.”

“And there was ‘no chance in hell’ the two of us would get out of the Games, but here we are,” Derek counted. He waited for a moment before letting out a soft sigh. “Stiles, your family is in District Twelve. They need you. I would never ask you to leave them.”

“And I can’t ask you to suffer because of me?”

“I’ll suffer from guilt if I take you back to Two and I’ll suffer if I go back alone.” He reached down and slid a finger beneath Stiles’ chin, tilting his head up. “I’ll be okay… as long as I have you.”

Stiles reached up and brought his lips to Derek’s. He balled the soft grey cotton of the older boy’s V-neck in his hands, moaning against his lips as he melted into Derek’s warmth.

Derek slid his hands down Stiles’ sides, his hands falling instinctively into place: one on his hip and the other cupping the base of Stiles’ skull, fingers laced through the soft locks of his hair.

Stiles pulled back to draw breath.

“I want to live with you,” Derek whispered. “Please.”

A glistening tear fell from Stiles’ eye. “I can’t live without you but I love you too much to see you suffer.”

“If you send me away, I’ll suffer. If you live in Twelve you’ll be without your family, it’ll make you miserable and it’ll make them suffer. Twelve is our only option and I’m okay with that.” Decision made, Derek continued, “We leave for the victory tour in the morning. After that, it’s home: District Twelve.”

Stiles laid his head against Derek’s chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Stiles pleaded.

Derek nodded, laying his arms around Stiles’ waist.

“One more question,” Stiles mumbled. “You love me, real or not real?”

Derek craned his neck, bringing their lips together again in a tender kiss.

Derek whispered, “Real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, Stiles' outfit inspired by this: http://images.rapgenius.com/41c9cd6d4c64f247f68470e7d188bf93.460x276x1.jpg


	17. Chapter 17

The train glided smoothly across the rails.

Lydia toddled back and forth across the length of the carriage.

Stiles was still amazed by the fact that she could balance atop the narrow stalks of her stilettos. He watched her for a while, mesmerised by the movement of the ruffles of pale pink silk that ran up the centre of her foot, bouncing with every step.

The pink fabric of her kimono-inspired dress rustled with her movements, the floral-printed ruffles of the skirt bouncing off her slender legs as she gently gnawed at the tip of her thumb.

Chunky golden bracelets were wound around her wrists, matching the bundles of pinched, flower-shaped fabric in the waves of her strawberry blonde hair and the golden scarf that lined the scooped neck of her dress, pressed down by a thick belt.

Stiles slumped sideways, curling against Derek’s side.

Derek laid his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him close. He gently rubbed the smaller boy’s arm, resting his cheek atop the crown of the Stiles’ head. The ruffled tufts of chestnut brown hair tickled his cheek as he nuzzled his face into the mess of hair.

“Okay.” Lydia broke the silence. “We’ll be arriving in District One soon. I’ve written a speech for you in order to make this a lot easier. You simply have to walk onto stage, wait until they introduce you, read the speech, they play the anthem and then you leave.”

She handed the boy the small blue cards.

He quickly flicked through them, not paying attention, but grateful that Lydia’s handwriting was neat and legible.

“Do I have to go up alone?” Stiles asked.

“Peter and I will come with you and if you want Derek to stand on stage with you, he can. However, he is technically not the victor of the Games so he cannot give the speech,” Lydia explained.

Derek lifted his hand to Stiles’ head, gently tousling his chestnut-brown hair.

Stiles turned and lifted his bright amber eyes to Derek. He whispered, “Would you?”

Derek offered him a reassuring smile and pressed a tender kiss to the boy’s forehead. “Of course.”

Lydia straightened her golden silk scarf. She fussed with her hair and looked herself over.

“You don’t have to worry, Lydia,” Stiles whispered. “You look gorgeous.”

Lydia looked at the boy with a soft smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Stiles and Derek agreed in unison.

The train slowed.

“Alright,” Peter muttered, making his way in from the other carriage. Unlike Lydia he wasn’t dressed for the occasion, instead he wore his usual get up of jeans and a dull grey V-neck. He set his glass of whiskey down on the small table to his right and glanced over at Stiles. “We’re arriving at District One now. You ready?”

Stiles nodded reluctantly.

They rose to their feet.

Lydia straightened the fabric of Stiles’ grey hoodie which she still disapproved of, readjusting the ruffles that hung loose around his neck and looking the boy up and down until she was satisfied.

“You don’t have to smile if you don’t want to,” Lydia whispered. “Chin up, walk straight, and give the speech. That’s all you have to do.”

The train pulled up to a halt.

They stepped out onto the platform, greeted by peacekeepers in gleaming white suits. They were escorted through District One’s Justice Building – a marvellous structure that was in a much better condition than the one in District Twelve.

They stepped through the large front doors.

Stiles squinted against the glare of the stage lights that focused on him.

He blinked heavily, making out the structural beams of the metal roof that sheltered the gathering crowd of District One’s population.

A young girl stepped forward to greet Stiles onstage, offering him a small bouquet of flowers.

“I picked them from my garden,” she said shyly. “I thought you might like them.”

Stiles felt his cheeks warm with a soft blush as he gratefully took the flowers and smiled at the young girl.

“They’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“When I’m older, I’m going to volunteer, just like you.”

And with that, she skipped offstage and into the arms of her mother.

Stiles’ smile dropped. His eyes darkened with despair as he watched the girl leave, the billowing fabric of her silver dress wavering in the air like a ghost.

He blinked heavily, trying to regain his composure as he stepped towards the centre of the stage. The mayor of their District made his speech, his voice booming through the speakers and echoing throughout the warehouse. When he finished, he introduced Stiles, ushering the boy towards the microphone as the roaring applause dulled his senses.

His heart was beating in his ears. His breath was thin. The air never reached his burning lungs. His hands were trembling. His eyes fell upon the families that stood atop podiums, illuminated by the photos of their loved ones: their children, their brothers, their sisters. The fallen tributes.

Below the portraits were bold white letters that spelt out their names.

DISTRICT 1: ENNIS.

DISTRICT 1: KALI.

It was so strange to match the names to the faces.

He swallowed hard and glanced down at the cue cards that Lydia had given him.

He drew in a deep breath and began, “Derek and I would like to celebrate our victory with you, and we would like to thank the Capitol for bringing us together. It was the bond of love that was forged in the crucible of the Games that was our greatest prize. It was love – true love – that helped us bear our hardships and emerge victorious. It is true love that mends the heart, disbands loneliness and gives meaning to our lives. It is a special kind of love that won over the fear of our mortality and gave us the will to survive, to live and to win.”

The District was silent.

Stiles swallowed hard. He knew he sounded mechanical, insincere and emotionless, as he read the cards word for word.

His hands trembled violently.

He glanced over his shoulder at Derek.

The older boy nodded slowly, offering Stiles a kind smile and encouraged to continue.

Stiles turned back to the audience, trying his hardest not to look at the faces that stared back at him.

He continued, “We also want to share with you the sorrow of your losses. The tributes of this District were great and noble warriors who brought honour to their families and to the people of their District.”

He glanced at the portraits. The lifeless eyes of the tributes stared back at him, making his heart sink into his stomach as a cold wave of fear flooded his veins.

His heart skipped a beat as he remembered Ennis’ murderous snarl as he stalked towards Stiles, the blood-soaked spear that he had wielded so fluidly – the same spear that had pierced Allison’s chest and killed her. He remembered Kali’s killer instinct, the horrific images he witnessed in his tracker jacker induced hallucinogenic state – baring her sharpened teeth.

Stiles glanced down at the cue cards, reading the scrawls of Lydia’s writing.

“We are, all of us, united. Both victors and vanquished.” He cringed at the word. “We are serving a common purpose: the power and glory of the Capitol. Beacon Hills today, Beacon Hills tomorrow, Beacon Hills forever.”

There was a moment of silence before the crowd erupted in roars of outraged, men and women shouting, “Tell us what you really think”, “Do you really care?” and other cries that were lost in the tides of sounds.

The Capitol anthem began to play, only partially drowning out the rage of the crowd.

Tears burnt at Stiles’ eyes, blurring his vision.

The sensory input was too much: too much noise, too much light, too many faces.

The memories of cannon fire and the faces of the fallen tributes tormented him.

Stiles stepped away from the microphone.

His hands shook and his legs threatened to collapse beneath him.

He instinctively reached behind him for Derek.

Derek reached out for him, taking a hold of his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze, just enough for the boy to know he was there.

The anthem finished and Derek lifted his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, guiding the boy offstage and back to the train.

Stiles collapsed to the couch, burying his hands in his face.

“I can’t,” he stammered, panting. His breathing was rugged. His lips trembled as he tried to draw breath. The air danced across his lips but failed to reach his lungs, offered him no relief. His lungs burnt like molten lava, craving the cool touch of oxygen.

Derek knelt before him, resting a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He felt Derek brush his thumb across the fabric of his jacket. His touch was so warm and comforting, a strange weight that centred him.

“Stiles,” he whispered. “Breathe.”

He tried, but failed to draw breath.

“I can’t,” Stiles sobbed, hot tears falling from his eyes. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Derek assured him. “Look at me. Breathe.”

Stiles shook his head, his eyes locked onto the shimmering hazel depths of Derek’s irises.

“Breathe in,” Derek instructed. He waited until Stiles and then began to count, “One, two, three, four. Breathe out. One, two, three, four.”

Stiles felt his heart slow and his breathing even as he focused on Derek, only Derek.

“There you go, that’s better,” Derek whispered. “See? You’re alright. It’s over.”

“No it’s not,” Stiles cried. “I have eleven more Districts to speak to and they all hate me.”

“No, they don’t,” Derek whispered. He sat up on the couch and pulled the trembling boy into his arms.

Stiles buried his face in the cool shadows of Derek’s chest, tears falling into the cotton.

“These people are just upset that their Careers didn’t emerge victorious,” Lydia added.

“Really?” Stiles snapped. “Because that wasn’t what they were shouting about. How about, next time, you don’t make me sound like an emotionless propaganda or the Capitol’s poster boy for the needless slaughter of children, huh?”

Stiles hurled the cue cards across the carriage in her direction. The coloured pieced of paper fluttered about, narrowly missing her as they rained down over her sleek figure and onto the carpet. None hit her, thankfully.

Lydia was silent for a moment, staring at the boy in shock.

“Lydia, those were people – _children_ – who died in that arena,” Stiles continued. He tried to keep his voice level, but his rage was seeping through the cracks. “And regardless of how many people they killed, their deaths shouldn’t be mocked by someone else’s ‘victory’.”

“Stiles,” Peter chimed in, his level voice catching their attention. “Lydia was raised in the Capitol, she doesn’t know any better. You want a speech that has emotion, write it yourself.”

“I don’t know what to say to these people,” Stiles replied.

“Be honest,” Peter instructed. “You’re good at spouting bullshit. It’s what you’ve been doing all this time.”

“I have never once lied. You’re the one who’s good at spouting bullshit too, Peter,” the boy retorted, rising to his feet. “How about you try and practice what you preach and say what you really want to?”

Peter glared at him. “Don’t you dare.”

“What’s he talking about?” Derek whispered to Lydia.

“He’s your uncle, Derek,” Stiles blurted out.

“You little shit!”

Peter leapt across the carriage. He grabbed the boy by the throat, pinning him against the carpeted floor.

Stiles thrashed about beneath him, his nails scratching at Peter’s arms as his feet kicked about uselessly.

“Peter!” Lydia squealed.

Derek leapt from his seat, grabbing the man by his shoulders and hurling him off of Stiles.

The man bounced back, stopping just before Derek. His shoulders heaved with rugged breaths as he glared past his nephew at the boy on the ground.

Stiles coughed and sputtered, sitting up and arching forward to catch his breath.

“Is it true?” Derek asked, his voice disturbingly level.

Peter breathed in and out slowly. He remained silent.

“Is he telling the truth?” Derek insisted.

“Yes,” Peter replied, calmly.

Derek’s fury erupted. He slammed his fist into Peter’s jaw.

The man stumbled backwards, snarling and growling. He wiped a trail of blood away from his swelling nose.

“You left!” Derek howled. “You left me and made me think I was alone.”

“I thought you were dead,” Peter explained.

“How would you know?! You didn’t stick around long enough to find out, did you? You were gone before the cinders even died down.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No, you didn’t care!”

“Enough!” Lydia screamed.

The carriage fell silent.

“Peter, go into the next carriage, put some ice on that and have it treated,” Lydia instructed.

Peter hesitated, but did as he was told, muttering obscenities under his breath as he trudged through the door.

“You two, sit down and calm down.”

“How long before the next District?” Derek asked, his calm composure returning.

“Ten minutes,” Lydia announced. “If I leave you alone to check on the crying baby in the next room, can I trust you two not to start anything?”

They both nodded.

Lydia nodded curtly and turned on her heels. She strutted into the next carriage, fists balled and ready to start a fight.

Derek and Stiles were left alone in the silence.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Stiles rasped, hanging his head to avoid Derek’s gaze.

Stiles listened as Derek’s footsteps trailed away from him. The older boy moved over to a small table by the far wall, collecting an engraved crystal glass and filling it with water. He brought the drink over to Stiles and offered it to him.

Stiles reached up, not willing to look at Derek in case he was met with rage. His slender finger coiled around the cool glass. He cradled it in his lap.

“You did,” Derek grunted as he sat down next to Stiles. He whispered. “Thank you.”

“He was scared you’d hate him,” Stiles muttered, staring at the clear liquid that swirled about in the carved crystal glass.

“I always hated him,” Derek admitted. “No matter what he did, he always found a way to get on my nerves.”

“I should have told you earlier.”

“I kind of knew. Like when you see a face but you can’t put a name to it.” Derek sat down on the floor next to Stiles, leaning back against the plush couch. “He’s older and uglier.”

Stiles snickered, biting into his lip to smother his laughter as he sipped at the water.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he’s alive. I’m still a little pissed that he never told me he survived the fire. I’m not mad at you – not at all. I’m mad at Peter for not telling me. I just… I spent so many years thinking I was alone. I listened to my sisters’ screams as they burnt to death, knowing I couldn’t save them. But…”

“You’re not alone. Not anymore,” Stiles promised. “Peter’s a dick, and that’s never going to change. And when you lose your family, it’s something you never forget. It may not me much, but I swear to you, I’m here for you.”

Derek gently tugged at the front of the boy’s jacket, pulling Stiles into his arms.

“You’re more than enough,” Derek whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head.

The train began to slow.

Lydia returned to the room, straightening the ruffles of her skirt. She paused, looking down at the boys. “Why are you on the floor?”

“It’s comfortable?” Stiles offered.

She rolled her eyes.

“Hop up and dust yourselves off,” she instructed. “Derek, it’s your decision on where you want to stand.”

“I stand with Stiles,” Derek announced, smiling at the boy as he helped him to his feet. He held Stiles by his waist, steadying him as the boy set the glass down and cleaned himself up.

“Okay, Peter’s going to stay on the train.”

“You mean you’ve sent him to his room,” Stiles corrected.

Lydia gave him a sweet smile.

Derek hid his smirk in Stiles’ unkempt hair.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Someone has to stay here and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else as he drinks himself into a stupor.”

“Is that safe?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, he does this often. At least he’ll shut up when he has a bottle in his mouth,” she muttered. She breathed deeply and offered the boys a smile, but it faded quickly. “Regardless, that means the two of you are doing this one alone.”

Stiles felt his heart skip.

“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispered. She looked at Stiles apologetically and asked, “Are you ready?”

Stiles looked at Derek. “I don’t know what to say.”

Derek brought his lips to Stiles’. He waited for the boy to melt into the warmth of the tender kiss, his slender fingers grabbing handfuls of Derek’s shirt as he hummed contently against his lips.

Derek slowly drew back and whispered, “Just talk as if you were talking to me.”

The train slowed to a stop.

Stiles made his way down the carriage to the door.

Derek joined him, sliding his hand into Stiles’ and lacing their fingers together.

Stiles glanced at him, giving him a small smile.

Derek bent over and whispered in his ear, “It may not be much, but I swear, I’m here for you.”

Stiles’ smile widened and became something more genuine. He gave Derek’s hand a gentle squeeze.

The doors opened.

Yet again, they stepped out onto the platform and were greeted by peacekeepers. They were ushered through the Justice Building and out onto a small stage.

The mayor of District Two introduced Stiles and gestured for the boy to step forward.

Stiles took a deep breath, feeling Derek roll the bud of his thumb across the boy’s knuckles. Stiles reluctantly let go and stepped up to the microphone.

He licked his lips, eyes falling on the projected images of the tributes.

DISTRICT 2: DEREK HALE.

DISTRICT 2: KATE ARGENT.

Derek’s podium was bare, no family left to look upon him or to mourn him if he had died in the arena. His portrait stood tall and bold above all else, his expression confident and composed.

Gerard Argent – a previous victor of the Games – stood before his daughter’s portrait.

The man was withered and old. His features were sunken, his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were tired, but his stern gaze didn’t waver for a second. Both of his children had inherited their fearful glare from him, but their piercing blue eyes must have come from their mother as his eyes were as dark as the night. His hair was thin and white, the crown of his head exposing his balding scalp.

Stiles inhaled deeply and began, “I offer my condolences to the families of the fallen tributes from the seventy-fourth Hunger Games and those before it. Kate was strong, she fought valiantly.” He looked at Gerard. “And I’m sorry that I was the one who took her from you.”

Gerard nodded solemnly.

“I know there is nothing I can say that could possibly ease the pain of your loss,” Stiles continued. “And I refuse to say that I’m celebrating my victory. All I did was survive. I will not stand upon a throne made from the corpses of the children who died in the Games.”

Stiles took a step back from the microphone.

The crowd was silent.

Stiles swallowed hard, his thundering heart rising into his throat.

Gerard was the first to move. He raised three fingers to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against them before raising them in a salute of District Twelve.

The rest of the District followed his lead.

Derek stepped forward, mirroring the gesture.

Stiles watched in shock, his hands trembling as he returned the funeral salute.

Peacekeepers stormed the stage, pulling Stiles and Derek back through the Justice Building as the crowd erupted in rebellious shouts.

The anthem did not play.

The boys were shoved back onto the train.

The doors shut before they could protest.

Stiles followed their lead, his body as limp as a rag doll in their arms as he turned towards the small screen that played the ongoing broadcast of the Games.

He watched as peacekeepers pulled Gerard from his daughter’s podium and hurled him at the ground.

One peacekeeper drew his weapon and pressed it to the back of the elderly man’s skull.

Gerard didn’t respond. He didn’t flinch and he didn’t cower. He was emotionless despite the screams and protests of the crowd and the threat of his pending mortality. His heavy eyelids fell shut over his dark eyes, and for a second he seemed at peace.

Stiles felt his breath hitch in his throat.

The peacekeeper pulled the trigger.

The broadcast was cut short, returning to the disturbingly cheery faces of the Capitol representatives and commentators.

Stiles collapsed to the floor, weak sobs falling from his lips. He was numb as he cried, his body shuddering and limbs trembling.

Derek lifted him into his arms, carrying him over to the couch. He sat down on the plush cushions. He set Stiles down in his lap, holding him close. He cradled the back of the boy’s head, fingers laced through the soft strands of his hair. Derek adjusted his hold on the boy, curling him the warmth of his chest and shielding him in the protection of his strong arms.

“It’s all my fault,” Stiles whispered.

Derek shushed him, holding him tight.

“I killed Kate and now Gerard is dead and it’s all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Derek assured him. “Gerard knew what he was doing.”

“Oh God, what about Chris?” Stiles mumbled. “First he lost his daughter, then his sister and now his dad. Oh God, I can’t go back.”

“Stiles,” Derek hushed him, his voice soft but firm. “This isn’t your fault. No one can blame you for anything that has happened.”

The door to the carriage opened, interrupting them.

Lydia entered, her face solemn.

Peter followed, his cheeks flushed from all the alcohol he had drunk. He slumped down in a small chair across from the boys, muttering, “That could have gone better.”

Stiles cringed – not only at the man’s harsh words but at the bitter stench of the alcohol that radiated off of him.

“Shut up,” Lydia hissed at him. She turned to look at Stiles and Derek, her emerald green eyes sparking with concern. “Are you two alright?”

“Shaken up,” Derek admitted. He glanced down at Stiles and added, “And distraught.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Lydia asked.

Stiles shook his head.

Derek readjusted his hold on the boy, bundling up his quivering body and holding him close in the comfort and security of his embrace.

Stiles nestled into his warmth, weakly clinging to the fistfuls of the older boy’s shirt.

Lydia sighed. “Okay, you have three hours before we arrive in District Three. Try and get some rest,” she instructed.

“Okay,” Peter shouted, unaware of just how loud he was. He clutched the whiskey bottle to his chest and curled up in the armchair, folding his lanky limbs upon themselves. In seconds, he was snoring.

Lydia shot a dirty glare at the man. She looked back at Derek and said, “If you need anything, just come and get me.”

“Peter,” she snapped.

The man bolted upright, eyes wide with shock. “Huh?”

“Bed,” Lydia growled, pointing towards the door.

The man rolled off of the chair and onto the floor of the carriage with a heavy thud. He stumbled about, grumbling something under his breath as he staggered towards the door.

Lydia sighed and followed him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles muttered. “I took you from your home. I’m the reason all of this happened.”

“No, you didn’t: I left my District. I haven’t had a home in a long time. And yes, it’s all your fault that I’m alive,” Derek jested.

Stiles nuzzled his face into Derek’s shirt. “Would you be happy in a house with me and my mismatched family?”

“I’d be happy anywhere with you,” Derek replied, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead.

Derek lifted the boy into his arms, shifting his weight and lying back across the couch. He laid Stiles against his chest, gently caressing the boy’s soft locks.

“Try and get some sleep,” Derek whispered.

“Will you fight away my nightmares?” Stiles mumbled, lethargy dragging at his voice.

“Of course,” Derek promised.

“I love you,” Stiles muttered, his fists weakly clinging to Derek’s shirt.

“I love you too,” Derek whispered lovingly.

 

Their arrival to District Three came too quickly.

Lydia gently nudged them awake, getting them up and ready to make their next speech.

Stiles was rather dazed, letting Derek guide him to his feet and out onto the stage.

Slowly, he became aware of where he was.

She sighed and stepped up to the microphone, staring at the portraits of the fallen tributes.

DISTRICT 3: JACKSON WHITTMORE.

The two adults that stood upon the podium looked nothing like the boy.

 _Adoptive parents_ , Stiles assumed.

DISTRICT 3: ERICA REYES.

She was beautiful in all her glory. The sandy waves of her hair rippled around her face, framing her luminescent skin and dark eyes. Her lips were curved into a small smile of confidence and pride.

On the platform before her photograph stood a man, alone.

Stiles exhaled slowly.

“To be completely honest, Jackson was terrifying,” Stiles admitted. “He fought bravely and while I did not approve of his choice of targets-” Stiles glanced at Derek. “-he did have a unique style of fighting that I admire.”

He turned to the family that stood before Erica’s photo.

“I didn’t know Erica well either, but she did save my life. I will always remember that. Please, honour in her as the hero she was.”

He glanced at Derek. He raised his brow, a silent question of whether the older boy wanted to add anything.

Derek subtly shook his head.

Stiles could see the tears brewing in his eyes. He knew how much it hurt.

He turned back to the microphone and continued, “Mourn the children you have lost, honour the tributes and the heroes of your District, and treasure the children who stand with you today.”

The crowd bowed their head in a minute of silence. From within the midst of the crowd a young couple – no older than twenty – pressed three fingers to their lips and raised them.

The crowd followed suit.

Chaos ensued.

Peacekeepers tore through the crowd and seized the couple, dragging them up to the stairs of the Justice Building.

Stiles tried to scurry forward, to stop the brutality, but two peacekeepers grabbed him by the arms and dragged him through the building. He couldn’t break free and he couldn’t turn away.

He watched on, helpless, as the guards pressed the guns to the couple’s heads.

The doors swung shut as they pulled the trigger, but the gunshots were as loud as any cannon.

He fell weak in the arms of the peacekeepers.

Flashes of colour surrounded him as Derek fought off the peacekeepers and lifted the stunned boy into his arms. He held Stiles close to his chest, cradling the smaller boy’s head into the curve of his neck as he carried him through the back doors and onto the train.

Stiles became aware that he wasn’t breathing.

He weakly grabbed at Derek’s shirt.

The larger boy knelt before him, cupping his cheeks and looking him in the eye. His thumbs brushed away the tears that fell from Stiles’ eyes.

He was saying something but Stiles couldn’t hear him over the thundering pulse of his blood in his ears and the haunting sound of gunshots and cannon fire.

“It’s my fault,” Stiles mumbled.

“No, it’s not,” Derek whispered.

“People are dying because of me, Derek,” Stiles cried. “Why? Why?!”

“Because you give them hope,” Peter announced. “Because you give them peace.”

“I never wanted this!”

“Of course not,” Peter said, disturbingly sober. “But it’s what you’ve got.”

“Maybe I should just read the speech Lydia wrote,” the boy blubbered.

“Don’t you dare,” Peter growled. “Your honesty and sincerity is giving these people something that no other victor has. You are proving that people emerge from the Games hurt, but human. If you read that fucking ridiculous speech – no offence Lydia – you are undoing everything you have worked to prove. If you read those cue cards then you become a slave to the Capitol.”

“At least then, people won’t get hurt!”

“That’s their fault. These people have seen what has happened to the people in the other Districts. They know what they’re in for. They face the consequences of their actions willingly. None of this is your fault,” Peter said firmly.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” Stiles stammered. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“One more District,” Derek whispered soothingly. “And that’s it for today.”

“But I don’t know District Four’s tributes. Malia was on the podium next to mine and Liam… I can’t even remember his cannon firing,” Stiles admitted.

Derek looked to Lydia and asked, “How long do we have?”

“Two hours,” she replied.

He turned back to Stiles. “Okay, we have two hours to think of something for you to say.”

 

Before he knew it, he was stepping up to the microphone for the fourth time that day.

He had lost his nervousness a while ago, now desensitised by the experience.

He lifted his chin and looked at the faces of the fallen tributes.

DISTRICT 4: LIAM DUNBAR.

A youthful face looked back at him, the boy’s eyes tearing through Stiles.

A woman with the same face and hair as the boy stood beside a dark-skinned man who didn’t look a thing like the boy but did seem familiar – a previous victor.

DISTRICT 4: MALIA TATE.

Her father – a stern but distraught looking man – stood alone on the platform.

Stiles glanced down at the notecards that Derek had written him.

He thought about it for a second and then lowered them.

He couldn’t do it.

His lips moved around unspoken words as he tried to find his voice. The crowd watching patiently.

“They were children,” he said weakly. “They were sons and daughters who had families and homes. They were children who died too young. They were kids who would play in the streets and in the fields, with toys or sticks or friends.”

He swallowed hard, blinking back his tears.

“I didn’t know Liam or Malia, but I will never forget them. I will see their faces and imagine their laughter as I walk down the street. I will feel the warmth of their smiles as I look across the grassy meadows beyond the fences of District Twelve. And I will hold on to the hope that if we had met in another life, we could have been friends.”

His tears fell across his mole-speckled cheeks.

“I wish I could give you something that could end the pain and give you peace, but I can only offer you sincerity and my deepest apologies.” He paused and wiped at his tears. He held his breath for a second before continuing, “I know what it’s like to hear the name of someone you love called out across the District. It’s something that can’t be described… The fear and the pain is indescribable. But I could never understand what it’s like to watch them leave, to watch them fight, to watch them draw their last breath, and to know that the one you loved – your child – is not coming home.”

He looked between the tear-stained faces of the adults and whispered, “I’m sorry. No more blood needs to be shed.”

He stepped back from the microphone, scanning the teary faces of the crowds.

He glanced over his shoulder at Derek, who could not hide the fact that he, too, was crying.

Stiles whispered, “They can’t stop me.”

Derek nodded, stepping forward to stand by the boy’s side.

“They can’t stop _us_ ,” Derek corrected.

Both raised their hands to their lips, pressing a tender kiss to the buds of their fingers. They raised their hands high, the proud funeral salute that no-one dared challenge.

The crowd followed without hesitation.

Peacekeepers looked between one another, confused as to who they were to subdue and punish.

The Capitol anthem blared across the District.

The broadcast ended, the cameras turned away and the screens blinked to black.

But as soon as the cameras were turned off and Stiles and Derek were ushered into the building, the crowd erupted into pained cries as peacekeepers unleashed uncensored brutality upon the innocent civilians.

Stiles collapsed against Derek’s side, letting the stronger boy guide him.

“I thought it would work,” he stuttered. “I thought I could save them.”

Derek pressed as soft kiss to the crown of Stiles’ head and whispered, “We can’t save them all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write the entire victory tour in one chapter, but by the time I got to District Two I realised just how long this part would take. And so, I have broken it up across two chapters which will be posted late next week. After that, I have another one or two chapters before this fic is finished.  
> For those who are patiently awaiting the update of My Boy, I’m sorry. I have been really busy this week and haven’t had the time to sit down and write. I promise I will get this chapter to you as soon as I possibly can.  
> I know you guys probably don’t care, but for those who are interested, Lydia’s clothes have been based off Effie’s – her Reaping dress an alteration of the one Effie wore in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (http://www.themarysue.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/effie-butterfly-dress.jpg) as well as this, http://picture-cdn.wheretoget.it/4zkicd-l.jpg, which is more in Lydia’s style.  
> The dress that Lydia wears in this chapter to visit Districts 1, 2, 3, and 4 is based on the kimono-inspired dress that Effie wears in The Hunger Games, http://cdn2.crushable.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/Effie-Couture-640x726.jpg.  
> Stiles’ outfits for this chapter are inspired by the outfits that Peeta wears at the reaping in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/0b/b1/fa/0bb1fa0de76efc0ca2eb87dc633869fa.jpg) as it is quite similar to the hoodies and jackets that Stiles likes to wear.


	18. Chapter 18

Stiles bolted upright in his bed. A painful scream tore at his throat. He thrashed about among the sheets, the soft cotton wrapping tight around his ankles like shackles. Tears fell from his eyes, leaving cold streaks down his cheeks.

The door to the carriage slid open.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the carpet floors. The mattress wavered and strong arms pulled him back into a warm embrace. Careful hands patted down his ruffled hair. The older boy held him close, whispering sweet nothings in the boy’s ear.

Stiles began to settle, melting into the safety of Derek’s embrace. His heart hammered against his ribs and his pulse pounded in his ears.

Derek turned Stiles around to face him, still cradling him close.

Stiles stared up at the bright aventurine irises, the colour alone was enough to slow his racing heartbeat.

“You left me alone?” Stiles whimpered, tears of heartache and fear brewed in his eyes. His head was full of screaming, panicked thoughts: a deep set fear that maybe it was all an act, a ploy for survival, and Derek didn’t love him after all.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to sleep with you,” Derek replied. “You fell asleep before I could ask and I didn’t want to assume.”

Stiles nestled into his warmth. His shoulders trembled as warm tears fell against Derek’s collarbone. His fingers weakly traced Derek’s bare chest, feeling the warmth of his presence and the solidity of his existence.

Derek gently shushed him, rocking the boy slightly as he rested his forehead against Stiles’. He pressed a tender kiss to the tear-stained bridge of Stiles’ nose.

“Do you want me to sleep with you tonight?” Derek whispered.

Stiles nodded. He dropped his head to the curve of Derek’s shoulder, nuzzling into his warmth and inhaling the older boy’s scent.

“In that case, I’ll stay,” Derek promised. He shuffled down the bed and adjusted his grip on the boy before laying back against the plush pillows. He rolled onto his side and spooned the boy, nuzzling his face into the curve of the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Stiles rolled off of Derek’s chest and reached back for the older boy’s arms. Derek shuffled closer, wrapping his arms around the slender boy and pulling him back into his warmth. He gently ran his hands across the boy’s chest, calming him. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t get their faces out of my head,” Stiles rasped.

“How do they look?” Derek asked, his soft whisper rolling across the patch of skin that was exposed beneath the boy’s collar.

“Angry,” Stiles muttered. “Upset.”

“Then imagine them smiling,” Derek instructed. “They’ve come to say goodbye. They’re going to a better place and they just wanted to tell you that they do not blame you for anything that happened. There is no anger, no remorse or tears either, because things are going to get better. It might take a while, but it’ll better. So they’ve come to say goodbye and thank you for honouring them, and that when you wake up you should give Derek a kiss.”

Stiles giggled. “That’s not what they’re saying.”

Derek pressed a kiss to the curve of Stiles’ neck. “You’re right, they’re saying you should give me more than just one kiss.”

Stiles squirmed in Derek’s arm as the older boy littered kisses across Stiles’ skin.

“Derek, stop it,” he giggled.

Stiles rolled over and cupped Derek’s cheeks. He brought their lips together in a lovingly passionate kiss.

Derek slid his hand beneath Stiles’ shirt, brushing the ball of his thumb across the smooth skin of Stiles’ waist. His other hand was threaded through the boy’s hair.

Stiles’ hands ran down to Derek’s neck, his fingers leaving ghostly trails of warmth across his jaw. He weakened in Derek’s hold, feeling himself melt into the safety of his arms and losing himself in the knowledge that Derek would protect him.

Stiles whimpered from loss as he drew back for air.

“If you do that again in the morning, I might just wake up,” Derek jested.

Stiles pressed a soft kiss to Derek’s lips.

“If I do it all night, would it keep you up?” he asked sultrily.

Derek smirked. “It might. But I think we might save that for another night. Tonight, we need sleep.”

Stiles’ smile dropped, his eyes losing their sparkle and glimmering with tears as he whispered, “I’m scared to close my eyes.”

Derek slid his finger beneath the boy’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his soft gaze.

“Don’t be. I’m here,” he whispered, his soft, husky voice warming the boy. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Will you stay with me?” Stiles asked pleadingly.

Derek craned his neck and kissed the boy’s cheek. “Always.”

 

Stiles blinked his eyes open to the soft morning light.

Derek was curled up against his back with his arm was laid across the boy’s chest, pulling the boy back into the security of his warmth.

There was a soft knock at the door.

Stiles lifted his head slightly as Lydia entered, dressed in an elegant white dress. The rippling skirt wavered around her thighs. The solid white fabric fitted her curves up to her chest where a sheet of thin floral lace covered her collarbone and shoulders. Deep blue flowers were stitched into the lace, flowing from one shoulder and down the length of her dress. Sapphire vines connected joined the blooms, coiling into small buds and sprouting into flowers. She seemed shorter than usual, toddling about on kitten heels. Pearly white beads strapped the heels to her feet. She wore no jewellery and just the slightest colouring of makeup. Her hair was braided into a band around the crown of her head, holding back the soft strawberry-blonde waves.

She gave Stiles a curt nod.

He rolled over and pressed a gentle kiss to Derek’s lips.

The older boy stirred, his sleep-hazed eyes blinking open.

“Morning,” Stiles whispered.

“M’nin’,” Derek mumbled in response. He rubbing his eyes and watched as Stiles rolled out of bed and began to bicker with Lydia about what he was going to wear that day.

Lydia tried to convince Stiles to wear something more formal than a hoodie, but Stiles refused to wear a suit. After what felt like hours of arguing they came to the compromise of a casual grey jacket with black sleeves and a pair of dark jeans. She helped him dress, occasionally glancing at the pendent Stiles had wound around his wrist, but she didn’t dare tell him to take it off.

After the boy was dressed, she turned her stern glare to Derek.

“Are you planning on getting out of bed any time today?” she teased.

Derek growled at her, rising from beneath the warmth of the sheets. He quickly browsed through the closet full of clothes. He pulled out a simple grey shirt and a pair of jeans, tossing them onto the bed.

Lydia opened her mouth to repeat the same lecture she had given Stiles when Derek silenced her, pulling out a simple black blazer and showing it to her. She pursed her lips shut and looked at the collective outfit for a moment before giving it the nod of approval.

“Breakfast is ready when you are,” she announced, turning on her heels and strutting into the next carriage, already yelling at Peter to shut up. The door slid shut, muffling their argument.

Derek sighed and rolled his eyes before offering Stiles a sweet smile.

The boy didn’t respond.

His amber eyes were focused on Derek’s bare chest. He cautiously stepped forward. His hands were cold as he brushed his fingertips across the exposed skin. The soft buds of his fingers dipped into the ridges of the rippling pink scar tissue just below Derek’s left shoulder.

Glistening tears filled the boy’s eyes as dark shadows seeped into his irises.

Derek took a hold of the boy’s hand, pressing it against his chest.

“Feel that?” Derek asked

Stiles waited for a second before he felt the soft drum of a heartbeat push against the palm of his hand.

He nodded.

“It means I’m alive,” Derek whispered soothingly. “A scar is just a scar.”

Stiles swallowed hard, dropping his eyes to his thigh. His free hand brushed over the spot where the arrow had pierced his skin.

“Mine didn’t scar,” he rasped.

“Shame,” Derek whispered, collecting his shirt from the bed. He pulled it over his head before levelling his eyes with the boy’s confused gaze. “Scars are sexy.”

Stiles dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Hey.” Derek slid his fingers beneath Stiles’ chin, lifting his head. “I’m kidding.”

“I’m not sexy,” Stiles muttered.

“You don’t have to be,” Derek replied. “I love you as you are.”

 

The morning moved so quickly that Stiles didn’t have time to prepare himself.

He found himself standing before the double doors of the Justice Building that lead into the heart of District Five. He tried to distract himself by focusing on the details: the small chip in the bottom left corner of the stained glass, the way the white paint had bled brown in the shadows of the curved panels, the streaks of beige pine that showed where the paint had not seeped into the grain, or the curved scuffmark along the dark floorboards where the door had scratched at the flesh over the years.

He felt the warmth of a hand in his.

He didn’t need to look to know it was Derek.

The older boy tightened his grip sightly, a gentle squeeze that let Stiles know he was there.

Stiles swallowed hard, slowly exhaling.

From beyond the doors he heard the muffled voice make the announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, please, welcome the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Stiles Stilinski.”

Derek glanced down at him, giving his hand one last squeeze as the doors opened and they stepped out onto the stage.

Derek let go of his hand and he stepped up to the microphone.

Stiles’ eyes were drawn to the faces of the fallen tributes.

DISTRICT 5: JORDAN PARRISH.

The boy looked so young, his bright jade eyes and rounded cheeks adding to his youthful appearance. His chestnut brown hair was cropped short and his mouth naturally fell into a smile.

Stiles tried to remember if he had seen him in the arena, but the face seemed so new, so perfect.

Then it struck him.

The portrait began to dissolve, the image of the boy’s skin seemed to bubble as thick welts formed on his face and his features bloated. Patches of golden flesh turned various shades of green, blue, orange, and purple.

The image festered in his mind, a memory that he wished he could forget.

District Five’s male tribute, the one who died from tracker jackers when he tried to save the young girl from District Ten – a clip which had featured on the recap that the Capitol had been playing on repeat ever since the Games ended.

Stiles tried to swallow, fighting the rising bile that burnt at his throat.

He looked away from the photo, his eyes falling on the female tribute’s podium.

DISTRICT 5: KIRA YUKIMURA.

He froze.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the face of the young girl.

She had been an only child. Her mother and father stood atop the small podium, both elderly and holding one another.

Stiles blinked back his tears and swallowed hard. He drew in a deep breath and tried to steady his trembling hands as he began, “I did not have the honour of meeting Jordan - he died before I got the chance - but he seemed like a nice boy and I would have liked to have known him.”

There was no-one on his podium, no family to mourn him, but the District seemed to bow their heads in acknowledgment and respect.

“He spent his last breath selflessly defending another tribute,” Stiles continued. “He was a brave and honourable man whose death comes at a loss to us all.”

His eyes drifted back to Kira’s portrait.

“I knew Kira though, and I will never forget her,” he whispered. His voice was strained as tears threatened to fall from his eyes. “I will always see her face... I’ll see her in my dreams, but I’ll lose her in my nightmares. I’ll pray that I can change what happened and save her, but I’ll spend hours crying over the reality I face, over girl I held in my arms. I’ll see her in the flowers that grow across the fields of District Twelve and those that stretch beyond the boarders that restrain us, but I’ll lose her in the winter. But I’ll _always_ find her in the stars where she shines the brightest.”

Warm tears caressed his cheeks, splashing against the toe of his shoe.

He couldn’t continue.

He glanced over his shoulder at Derek and shook his head. His lips quivered around unspoken words as Derek stepped forward and took a hold of Stiles’ trembling hand.

“Not them,” he whispered, barely audible. “Please, don’t let them do it.”

But his pleas were left unheard as the citizens of District Five raised their hands in the funeral salute.

Tears streaked Stiles’ vision as peacekeepers escorted them offstage before brutally enforcing the will of the Capitol.

From that point on, everything seemed to blur together.

District after District, the faces in the crowd watched him with pride and admiration as he spoke honestly. And District after District, the broadcast was abruptly ended as the crowds raised their fingers in a respectful salute for the dead, only to be attacked, beaten, abused or executed as Stiles and Derek were ushered offstage. Flashes of white blinded the boy as he helplessly thrashed about in the arms of the peacekeepers who grabbed him and dragged him back to the train.

The only way Stiles could tell that the day had changed was by the fact that Lydia wore a different dress when she woke him for his next speech.

He wasn’t sure whether his eyes were shut or not when she gently shook his shoulder. He looked up at her bright green eyes, feeling Derek stir among the sheets behind him and he weakly rose from the bed.

He watched her move about, the asymmetrical skirt brushing against the back of her shins as she strode about in elegant black ankle boots. He watched her balance atop the small platform and thin stiletto, the shiny golden buckles supporting the curve of her foot.

She was dressed in an elegant dress that had black floral lace laid atop a beige lining. The curve of the boat neck collar ran across her collarbones and the rippled of her asymmetrical skirt exposed the silky lining, making her skin glow against the cream fabric. She wore a few rings and a golden hairpin that was shaped like a stream of leaves which encircled the golden hair of her braided bun.

“Why black?” Stiles asked, surprised as the lack of colour in the girl’s outfit.

Lydia couldn’t look him in the eye as she replied, “It’s traditional to wear black to a funeral.”

“Why now?” Stiles persisted.

Lydia’s fingers brushed against Allison’s pendant and the boy let the question drop.

Stiles felt numb as he stepped out onto the stage.

District Nine’s presentation was the same as Eight’s – Stiles didn’t know the tributes, but he offered his heartfelt condolences to the families of the fallen, only to watch the members of the District raise their hands and be subdued by peacekeepers – and District Ten was no different.

It was clockwork, routine, repetition.

At least until Stiles found himself staring at the bold portraits of two familiar tributes.

He read the names.

DISTRICT 11: VERNON BOYD.

DISTRICT 11: BRAEDEN.

Before the portrait of the male tribute stood an elderly woman with wiry grey hair and with three young girls huddled around her, Boyd’s mother and sisters. The two older girls looked no older than ten years old, and the youngest sat in her mother’s arms, weakly clinging to the dull fabric of the woman’s dress and resting her head against her mother’s shoulder.

On the podium in front of Braeden’s photograph was a young boy, no older than six years old. His sister was gone and his parents were absent, leaving Stiles to assume he was an orphan.

Stiles felt sick.

He drew in a deep breath and steadied himself.

“Your tributes were heroes,” Stiles said confidently. “I know there is nothing I can say to make your loss any less painful, but I just want you to know that they were brave, they were selfless, and they were heroes. From the very beginning of the Games, Braeden and Vernon risked their lives to save Kira’s life and my own. Although they lost their lives doing so, I promise you their sacrifice was not in vain.”

Stiles dared to look at the tear-stained faces of the District. One man caught his eye, an elderly man who stood at the foot of Boyd’s podium, too elderly to climb the ladder and stand by his daughter and her children. His dark skin was creased but his eyes were full of spirit, full of pain, but full of thanks as he returned the boy’s gaze.

“Please, remember them the way I do.”

The elderly man nodded.

Stiles lifted his gaze away from the man and up to the portraits, the faces of pride and strength that overlooked the crowd.

He felt himself smile.

“They are the heroes of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games.”

The anthem began to play and Stiles stepped back from the microphone, his stomach twisting with anxiety as his eyes scanned the crowd.

The elderly man hobbled forward, standing in the small aisle that divided the crowd. He levelled his gaze with Stiles and raised his head high. He lifted his hand to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss to his trembling fingers as he raised them high into the air.

Peacekeepers raced forward, pushing aside those who tried to defend him and grabbing the elderly man by the arms.

Without thinking, Stiles leapt off the stage. He sprinted down the aisle and shoved aside the peacekeepers. He stood before the man, arms spread wide and shielding him.

He heaved in rugged breaths, eyes burning with rage as a peacekeeper drew his weapon.

Derek raced after Stiles, freezing in fear as he saw the captain of the guard raise the barrel of his gun to the boy’s head.

“Move,” the man growled.

Stiles stood his ground, silent.

“I said move!”

The captain backhanded the boy, knocking Stiles to the ground.

Derek leapt forward but two peacekeepers hurled him back.

Stiles slammed his hand against the dirt, steadying himself as he rose to his feet and stood his ground.

The guard pressed the barrel to the boy’s forehead.

“You think you can scare me?” Stiles asked him.

“I’m giving you one last chance,” the man said warningly. “Step aside, boy.”

“How dare you disgrace that symbol of my District. How dare you strip it of its meaning and make it seem like a vulgar act of rebellion. It means thanks, it mean admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love.” Stiles glared at the man. “And I will not let you disgrace it.”

“Put away your gun, Captain,” Peter called from the stage. “There’s been enough bloodshed.”

The peacekeeper did not budge.

“Or don’t,” Peter continued with a slight shrug.

The man leapt off the stage, landing with a little bounce before casually strutting towards the armed man.

“But killing him will only make him a martyr and you a monster,” Peter warned. “You want to see what a real rebellion looks like? Pull the trigger.”

His voice was low, menacing, as he added, “I dare you.”

Derek looked like he was about to murder his uncle for suggesting such a thing. But Peter’s threats worked; the captain of the guard lowered his gun.

Stiles turned away from the peacekeeper and to the elderly man behind him.

“Are you alright?” he whispered.

The man nodded. His wise eyes met Stiles’ and he gently cupped the boy’s cheek.

His voice was hoarse as he rasped, “Thank you. Not for my life, but for my grandson’s. He did not live long, but he made us proud and you gave us peace.”

Stiles gave him a soft smile, but it faltered as he looked the man in the eye.

“Stiles,” Peter called, interrupting them.

“Go,” the elderly man instructed.

Stiles gave him a polite nod before turning to join Derek and Peter.

They made their way back up onto the stage and through the doors of the Justice Building, but as the doors sung shut Stiles’ knees caved at the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

Derek caught him before he hit the ground.

Stiles tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat as his empty lungs burnt for air.

His body swayed about weakly as Derek lifted him into his arms and carried him back onto the train.

The doors slid shut and Stiles lifted his eyes to Derek’s.

His lips trembled around silence words as tears streaked his vision.

“I know,” Derek whispered, cupping Stiles’ hands in his own.

Stiles slumped forward, collapsing into Derek’s arms. He clawed at fistfuls of Derek’s shirt as the scream erupted from his lungs and violent sobs shook his body.

Derek cradled him close, holding the boy in the protection of his arms.

“I know,” he whispered softly. “I know.”

 

“I can’t do this,” Stiles whispered as he stood before the familiar faded pine doors. The withered floorboards of the Justice Building groaned beneath them. “I can’t ask you to live here. I can’t go out there. I can’t face them.”

“Stiles,” Derek whispered. “They’re just happy to have you home.”

“Allison should be here, not me,” Stiles muttered, unable to hold back his tears.

“You’re here,” Peter muttered from behind them. “You can’t change that. The sooner you come to terms with the fact that you survived and she’s dead, the better.”

“Peter,” Lydia and Derek hissed in unison.

“What?” the man growled. “He can’t spend the rest of his life like this.”

Peter stepped forward to Stiles’ side.

Derek tightened his grip on Stiles’ hand, glaring at his uncle and readying himself to jump to the boy’s defence.

“I know you don’t think highly of me,” Peter continued, ignoring Derek. “And I might not be the best with emotions, but I’ve been through this. I know what it’s like. It’s not going to be easy. For a long time you’ll be haunted by their faces, every loud noise will sound like a cannon firing and you’ll live in fear that people are still out to kill you. But in time, it will get better. It’s not easy, but you will find peace again.”

“Until they drag us out to be the mentors for next year’s tributes,” Stiles muttered.

“It’s never easy,” Peter replied.

“You gave up pretty quickly on me,” Stiles spat.

Peter was silent for a moment. He nodded and whispered, “And you proved me wrong.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor of District Twelve announced from the other side of the doors, interrupting their conversation and leaving the group to stand in silence. “Welcome home, the victor of the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games, Stiles Stilinski.”

The doors opened and the boys walked out onto the stage. Stiles paused for a moment, looking across the familiar faces of the crowd.

Everyone was there, dressed in their best clothes and forming a sea of dull colours, patches of blue and white among the dull brown and grey of the District.

His bright eyes scanned every face, but he couldn’t find the ones he wanted to see.

Stiles swallowed hard and let go of Derek’s hand. His fingers slipped out of Derek’s hold, growing cold as he drew away. His slender hands trembled as he stepped up to the microphone.

His heart was beating painfully against his chest and blood was pounding in his ears. All he could hear was the wisps of air that fell past his lips. His lungs burnt for air and hot tears prickled his eyes.

He lifted his gaze to the podiums, looking at his own portrait. It was surreal to stare at his own face: the bright amber eyes with swirls of chocolate brown tones, his slightly upturned nose, his rosy pink lips and mole-speckled cheeks. The only way he was sure it was his podium was the name set below his portrait – DISTRICT 12: STILES STILINSKI – and the man who stood before the projected image.

He stared at his father’s face. His eyes were weary and his features sunken, withered and creased with all the worry and fear he had suffered over the week, aging him by years. But he looked upon the boy with unmistakable pride and love.

Stiles drew in a shaky breath and turned to look at the other portrait.

DISTRICT 12: ALLISON ARGENT.

The portrait was stunning, as beautiful as she was in life. Her jaw was firm and framed by the cascading waves of dark curls. Her skin was radiant, glistening like her dark eyes. She held her composure, much like her father: her chin was tipped upwards with pride.

She was gorgeous.

Stiles felt her pendent tap against his wrist. He pulled up his sleeve and untied the knot. He slid the necklace off his wrist and balled his fist around it. He stepped away from the microphone and jumped down from the stage. He walked through the aisle that split the crowd, levelling his eyes with Chris.

The man climbed down from the podium and walked towards the boy. His composure was fractured, his brow creased with confusion and his expression filled with worry.

“Stiles, are you okay?” Chris whispered.

The boy held out his hand.

Chris reached forward and let Stiles drop the necklace into the palm of his hand.

“Allison made me promise that if I survived, I’d bring it home to you,” Stiles explained.

Chris smiled softly. He reached forward, looping it around the boy’s throat and securing the knot.

“It’s the crest of my family and you have done right by it,” Chris told him. “ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_.”

“We protect those who cannot protect themselves,” Stiles translated.

“You have done exactly that,” Christ pointed out. “And you are family to me.”

He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, pulling him into a warm embrace.

Stiles struggled to hold back his tears as he clawed at fistfuls of the man’s shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t… I’m so sorry.”

Chris gently pulled Stiles back and levelled his eyes with the boy.

He spoke softly, his usually gruff voice smooth and loving as he whispered, “I don’t blame you for anything, okay? Allison died saving you and she would do it a thousand times over without hesitation. What you did for her in return was beautiful; you honoured her and you gave her peace, that’s more than I could have ever asked for. As for Kate, I’d rather remember my sister as child I left behind in Two all those years ago than as the monster that attacked you. And my father made his choice, he stood proud and tried to say the exact same things I am telling you right now. None of this is your fault, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded weakly, his lips trembling and his eyes glistening with tears.

Chris glanced over the boy’s shoulder. “Right now, I think there’s someone else you need to talk to.”

Stiles turned around.

His father had climbed down from the podium too and waited patiently, watching his son’s every movement.

Chris gently patted the boy’s shoulder and stepped back.

Stiles sprinted across the space and leapt into his father’s arms.

The man pulled him into a warm embrace, running his broad hands running over the boy’s slender body as if he wasn’t quite sure he was real.

He felt his father’s warm tears seep through his shirt. The man leant back, cupping the boy’s cheeks and looking at him lovingly.

“I’m so proud of you,” John whispered. “Not because you walked out of that arena alive, but because of everything you did while you were in there. You stayed true to who you are, and I am proud to call you my boy.”

Stiles felt his tears fall past the bars of his dark eyelashes, streaming down his cheeks.

“I love you, Stiles,” John whispered.

“I love you, dad,” Stiles sobbed as he fell back into his father’s hold.

“Stiles,” Isaac cried from across the crowd.

Stiles wheeled around to find the boy. His eyes found the youthful face among the crowd, Scott’s arm resting on his shoulder to hold him back from the armed peacekeepers who blocked his path.

Isaac’s eyes glistened with tears as he tried to fight off Scott’s hand.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile.

The peacekeepers seemed to get the hint. They stepped aside and let the young boy sprint into Stiles’ arms. Isaac nearly tackled Stiles to the ground, but the older boy quickly regained his balance and steadied them. He coiled his arms around Isaac and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of the boy’s head, feeling Isaac’s shoulders tremble as he sobbed into Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles gently shushed him, resting his cheek atop the boy’s sandy curls.

“It’s okay,” Stiles promised.

“I missed you,” Isaac cried, tightening his hold around Stiles’ waist and nuzzling his face into Stiles’ chest. Stiles cradled the back of his head.

“I missed you too, buddy.”

It was at that point that Stiles seemed to remember the cameras that were pointed in his direction.

Stiles glanced from the cameras to the stage, where Peter held Derek back from sprinting after the boy.

They looked at him with softened expressions.

Derek and Stiles were silent as they exchanged an unspoken conversation through glances.

They knew.

Stiles turned to face the cameras again, staring straight down the lens as he declared with finality, “There are no victors in the Games, only survivors.”

Stiles glanced up at Allison’s portrait.

“They were children who didn’t deserve to die. The fallen tributes deserve to be honoured in death, not shamed.”

Stiles stood proud. He raised his hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the tips of his fingers. He raised his hand high into the air and saluted towards the cameras and the people of the Districts it reached.

“To the fallen,” he announced.

Atop the stage, Peter and Derek mirrored the gesture and called out, “To the fallen.”

One by one, the people of District Twelve raised their hands in the respectful gesture.

Stiles held his breath. He held onto Isaac with his free hand, tightening his hold and shielding the boy. He readied himself to fight off any peacekeepers that dared to attack him or his family.

But out the corner of his eye he watched as the peacekeepers of District Twelve joined in with the funeral salute.

It was a thank you: to Erica, Boyd, Braeden, Jordan and the families, citizens and Districts who had stood proud and shown their support.

It was a show of admiration: to Ennis, Kali, Jackson, and the tributes before them, both alive and dead. Admiration of their skills, of their strength, of their courage and of their lives.

It was a goodbye to the ones they loved: to the families of the fallen tributes, to those who were brutally executed, to those who had lost family and friends, to Gerard and Kate, to Claudia and Victoria, to Kira, and to Allison.

It was one last gesture for those they had lost.

One last show of compassion to honour the fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dress Lydia wears when visiting Districts 5, 6, 7, and 8 is inspired by this dress, http://s.ericdress.com/images/product/11/11239/11239932_14_m.jpg and Stiles’ outfit is based on Peeta’s outfit from victory tour in The Hunger Games (http://i.perezhilton.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/hunger-games-catching-fire-new-movie-pic-katniss-peeta__oPt.jpg).  
> The third and final dress that Lydia wears on the victory tour when visiting Districts 9, 10, 11 and 12 is inspired by this dress, http://d3mna48k5fyuxs.cloudfront.net/upimg/jjshouse/s1140/24/bf/2ea057c424c81158baac7f0fa17224bf.jpg


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who want an insight into the music I listen to while writing, read the second half of this chapter while listening to ‘Shout’ by Think Up Anger (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q6ftmJIHd14), or don't, it's up to you. :)

The broadcast ended, the ring of the Capitol’s anthem dying off with an eerie echo that resonated throughout the streets of District Twelve.

Scott sprinted across the open space and pulled his friend into his arms.

Stiles felt weak as he slowly returned the hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Scott leant back, looking at him with confusion.

“I couldn’t save her,” Stiles muttered, tears streaking his vision.

Scott’s features softened. His dark eyes sparkled with pain and remorse and his mouth twitched into a genuine, kind smile.

“You came home,” Scott whispered, resting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “That’s enough.”

Isaac turned and nuzzled his face back into Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles lifted the boy into his arms. His sweet smile faltered as he remembered something.

“I’m sorry, Isaac,” Stiles whispered. “I don’t have a birthday present for you.”

“Yeah, you do,” the boy replied.

“I don’t,” Stiles said apologetically. He felt his stomach twist at the thought of letting the boy down. “I… I really don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Isaac repeated. “You’re my present.”

Stiles let out a soft sigh of relief. Tears of joy prickled his eyes as the boy nestled his face into the curve of the Stiles’ neck. Stiles cupped the back of the boy’s head, lacing his fingers through his soft, golden curls. He held him close, pressing a soft kiss to the boy’s temple.

“Best birthday ever,” Isaac muttered.

Stiles chuckled, gently swaying the boy in his arms.

As the crowd dissipated, Derek climbed down from the stage and made his way over to Stiles’ side.

“You must be Derek,” John greeted, extending his hand. “I’m John, Stiles’ father.”

Derek returned the handshake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You lot ready?” Peter grumbled as he strutted over the group. “I just want to go back to the Village and drink.”

Stiles sighed, adjusting his grip on Isaac. “Okay, let’s go.”

He took a few steps before he realised that Chris, Melissa and Scott weren’t moving.

“Are you coming?” Stiles asked.

“We can’t,” Scott muttered. “The Victor’s Village is for the victor and their family.”

“Exactly,” Stiles replied. “Now come on.”

“Sweetie,” Melissa whispered. “That doesn’t include us.”

“Yes, it does,” Stiles argued.

“Stiles,” Chris started.

“You’re my family,” Stiles repeated. “No-one in Twelve questions that and if anyone does question it, they can direct their complaints to him.” Stiles nodded towards Derek. “Now, come on. Let’s go.”

Melissa lifted her arm around Scott’s broad shoulders and walked after Stiles and Derek. Chris trailed behind them.

They made their way through the streets of District Twelve and towards the large buildings at the far end of town, acknowledged as the Victor’s Village. There used to be large cast iron gates and an arch over the entrance way with metal lettering that red: VICTORS VILLAGE. Stiles never liked it, it was gloomy and created a division between the victors and the people of the District. It had rusted and fallen to the ground a few years ago. Now, it was overgrown with frail weeds and small dandelions. Peter shoved it with his foot as he trudged past it and walked towards the large house.

There is only one house because no-one ever expected District Twelve to have more than one victor at a time. The house itself was large three-storey building with a narrow porch and elegant window frames. The rich earthy tones of its paint had dulled over time, marred by the coal and dust that filled the streets of Twelve and making it blend in with the poverty and dreariness of the District.

“Welcome to your new home,” Peter said nonchalantly. He walked up to the front door and shoved it open.

The hinges groaned as the door opened. The group shuffled into the foyer, taking a second to adjust to the amazing sight. A large staircase sat before them, an elegantly carved banister guiding the steps leading up to the second floor.

The house was homely. The walls were plastered and painted pale pastel shades of green, blue or beige. The earthy tones of the house contrasted the blindingly bold colours of the Capitol, making the boy feel at ease despite the enormity of the manor.

The foyer walls were painted beige. They were decorated with pictures drawn in coal, varying from houses in District Twelve – drawn in their prime – and the portraits of the victors and their families. One of them caught Stiles’ attention. It was set in a carved frame beside the doorway to the lounge room. It was a charcoal drawing of two little boys playing in the meadow close to the fence that encircled the District. Their faces were turned away and towards the woods beyond the barbed-wire fence as they sat among the blooming flowers.

“Stiles?” Derek whispered from behind the boy.

“It’s… It’s one of my mum’s,” Stiles gasped, brushing his fingers across the section of glass that covered her signature, wiping the dust and grime off the glass to reveal the curved writing.

“Claudia,” Peter mumbled as he stepped up to Stiles’ side.

“You knew my mum?” Stiles asked.

“I did. She was the only one of you lot that ever talked to me, the only person in this bloody District who talked to me after the Games,” he muttered. “She taught me how to cook and fend for myself, she brought me medicines when I was sick and visited when she could. She gave me that for my birthday years ago. It’s my favourite.”

Peter squinted at the drawing, looking at the boys among the flowers. He glanced over his shoulder at Scott and then turned to Stiles before looking back at the illustration.

“Huh,” he mumbled, waving away his thoughts as he turned away and walked into the kitchen.

Stiles could hear the tinkling of glass and the trickling of liquid as Peter returned with a glass of whiskey, the bottle was in his other hand. He downed the golden liquid and quickly refilled his glass before sauntering into the lounge room and slumping down in a small armchair.

“The room furthest from the stairwell on the left is mine, don’t go in there,” Peter grumbled, sipping at his whiskey. “Make yourselves at home.”

Stiles set Isaac down on his feet. The younger boy held onto his hand as they stepped into the dining room.

The wall to his right was lined with large windows that looked out over the balcony and small courtyard. To his left, a large archway that lead into the kitchen.

The dining room was a rather extravagant room: the varnished wood of the exposed support beams framed the room, a large cabinet was pressed against the wall – it’s thick shelves were stocked full of undamaged plates, bowls and fine china, a large mahogany table stretched the length of the room – long enough to sit their large family – and carved chairs with woven wicker seats to match. A vase sat in the middle of the table, and in it was a large bouquet of white lilies and roses.

Stiles swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off of them. He watched as a petal fell from one of the roses, fluttering down to the tabletop. Its edges were wilted and tined golden as death and decay tainted its beauty and took its hold over the fragile petal.

He felt a gentle tug at his hand as Isaac tried to pull him towards the kitchen. Stiles let the boy tow him into the next room.

The kitchen was larger than any Stiles had seen before. It had a large iron stove and a furnace-like oven atop a patch of slate tiles. A deep trough was set beneath a small window. The walls were lined with shelves that stored various pots, pans, cups and packages. A large pantry was set in the corner, full of an endless supply of rations that was awarded to the victors. There were large sacks of oats and flour, baskets of fresh fruit and containers full of pasta and sweets.

Stiles pulled the lid off of one of the containers with his free hand, reaching inside of it to pull out a chunk of chocolate. He looked down at Isaac and whispered, “Do you promise to ask before you take?”

Isaac nodded.

“Do you promise not to steal or snack on any food while Melissa’s cooking?”

Isaac nodded again.

“Do you promise to be good?”

“I promise,” Isaac replied proudly.

Stiles pressed a tender kiss to the boy’s forehead and gave him the chunk of chocolate.

Isaac squealed with joy, gently nibbling at the chocolate as Stiles lead him around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards so the two of them could find their way if they ever needed a glass of water.

Scott and Melissa joined them. Isaac smiled at them sweetly. Scott failed to smother his laughter at the sight of Isaac’s chocolate-smothered face.

John and Chris followed, but Derek stayed in the doorway.

Stiles met his eye.

Derek smiled weakly, but didn’t enter the kitchen.

Isaac gently tugged at Stiles’ sleeve. The boy leant up and whispered, “He’s scary.”

“He’s not scary,” Stiles replied quietly. “He just looks grumpy to keep the bad guys away. Like Chris.”

“Like how my teddy bear scares away nightmares?” Isaac asked.

“Yeah, just like that.”

“Can I give him a hug?” Isaac asked.

Stiles nodded and the boy relinquished his hold on Stiles’ hand. Isaac toddled across the kitchen and stood beside Derek, still holding onto the chunk of chocolate. He paused and seemed to rethink his actions. Isaac thought for a moment and glanced down at the sweet treat in his hand. He snapped the piece of chocolate in half and offered it to Derek.

“Really?” Derek asked.

Isaac nodded.

Derek smiled sweetly and whispered, “Thank you.”

He took the piece of chocolate and nibbled at it.

Isaac stood in the tall boy’s shadow. He looked at Derek with a timid expression as he asked, “Can we go to the other room?”

Stiles smiled at the sight as Derek offered the boy his hand and walked him back through the dining room and across the foyer into the lounge room. Stiles followed them.

The lounge room had the same colour scheme as the rest of the house: two beige couches that were large enough for the family to sit together on and a small chestnut brown armchair in the corner which Peter sat on, already drinking himself into a stupor next to the fireplace. Blue and grey cushions sat atop the plush couches and a small television was mounted on the far wall.

Beside the pale bricks of the fireplace was a small archway that led to an alcove. In it were thick mahogany shelves lined with a library-worth of books. Two small grey chairs sat before the bookshelves and an old – but not ratty or uncomfortable – grey couch was pushed back against the large window.

Stiles glanced at the books. He knew how to read, but he had never had the chance to read a book before.

Peter started to grumble and growl about nothing in particular and Isaac hid behind Derek. Lydia strutted into the room behind them – finally coming home after dealing with the Capitol officials and the conclusion of the broadcast. She shot a glare at Peter and, instantly, the man shut up. She span on her heels and looked at Melissa.

“If you’d like, I can show you your room,” Lydia offered. “I made sure that it did have a touch of femininity.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

Lydia led her up the stars and down the hallway to the left. Isaac let go of Derek’s hand and chased after the women.

Derek looked at Stiles and raised his brow.

Curiosity won them over and they hurried upstairs.

Melissa’s room was rather elegant. The walls were plastered and painted cream. Soft cotton curtains hung over the large window that framed the rich wooden bedframe of the queen-sized bed. There was a thick blanket stretched across the bed, the sheets decorated with the pattern of vines and cherry blossoms. Two small tables were set either side of the bed, one with a vase of vibrant red flowers on it and the other with an elegantly curved white lamp. A large dresser was pressed against the far wall. Lydia strutted over to the doors and pulled them open to reveal the outfits she had picked out for Melissa: fashionable but modest dresses in pastel pink, sky blue, beige, white, and every other possible colour. They were different styles and cuts with shoes to match – small slippers, flats and kitten heels – nothing as drastic as Lydia’s stilettos or wedges.

Melissa looked close to tears. She whispered, “Thank you,” over and over again.

Isaac walked in circles around the room, amazed that something this elegant could exist.

“Isaac,” Derek called from the doorway.

The boy span around the face them.

“Do you want to pick your room?” Derek asked.

The boy’s eyes flew open wide. “Can I?”

Stiles stepped aside and pointed down the hallway. “Take your pick.”

“Actually,” Lydia interrupted. “There’s actually a room made just for you, Isaac. Follow me.”

She led the boy down the hallway to the room to the right of the stairwell.

“Stiles! Scott! Look at this,” Isaac called from the other end of the house.

Stiles made his way down to the boy’s new room, Scott bounding up the stairs to follow. They laughed at the sight of Isaac spinning in circles in the middle of the room, a goofy smiles on his face as he tried to look at everything at once.

The walls were blue and covered in photographs and drawings.

Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach as he took a closer look at the photos.

There were photographs of Isaac’s parents and his older brother, of the four fathers – John, Chris, Scott’s dad - Rafael - and Isaac’s father – standing before the mines, and Allison’s and Stiles’ tribute photos. There were various illustrations of Stiles, Scott, Isaac and Allison that Claudia had drawn.

The bed was adorned with soft blue sheets, thick blankets and stacks of plush teddies.

There was a desk pressed up against the far wall, cluttered with whittled figurines, toys, paper, pencils, and everything he could ever want to play with.

“Wow,” Stiles whispered. “You have a room all to yourself.”

Isaac stopped spinning. He looked at Scott with wide, fearful eyes. He whimpered slightly.

“It’s okay, Isaac,” Scott assured him. “You can still share a room with me if you want.”

“The room across hall has two beds in it,” Lydia announced. “You can have this room for playing in and the other for sleeping in.”

Isaac smiled.

“You have everything planned, don’t you?” Scott said, amazed.

“No, just… some things just fall into place,” Lydia replied. “There just happened to be a room with two beds. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She stepped past the boys and made her way back towards the stairwell.

“It was Allison’s wasn’t it?” Stiles called after her.

She froze.

“Melissa’s room,” Stiles continued. “It was set up for Allison if she were to win.”

Lydia was silent.

“You don’t have to answer; I know,” Stiles said. He glanced over his shoulder at Isaac’s new room. “This one was to be mine, wasn’t it? That’s why it has all the photos.”

Lydia didn’t turn to face him. She nodded.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered.

Lydia continued walking. As she turned to make her way down the stairs, Stiles caught a glimpse of the shimmering tears that caressed her cheeks.

He stood still for a moment, staring into oblivion.

He jolted as something tugged at his sleeve.

He turned to Isaac who looked at him with pleading eyes and asked, “Can I see the other room?”

Stiles nodded and stepped across the small hallway. He pushed open the door, revealing the rather large room. It had dull cream walls, a large window in the centre and two generously sized beds set wither side of the window frame. A small dresser was set between the beds and another one – much larger – pushed up against the wall.

Isaac nudged past the two larger boys and skipped about the room. He pounced onto one of beds.

The boys flinched as wooden frame creaked slightly under the sudden pressure, but it held.

“It’s big,” Isaac remarked, laying down on the soft blanket.

Scott chuckled and walked over to the end of the bed. He playfully grabbed the boy’s ankles and said, “At least now your little feet won’t get cold from hanging off the end.”

Isaac giggled and kicked his feet free of Scott’s hands.

Stiles yelped and jumped as strong arms wound around his slender waist. He breathed deeply and settled into Derek’s hold.

The older boy nuzzled his face into the curve of Stiles’ neck, pressing delicate kisses to the boy’s pale skin.

“Have you picked a room?” Derek asked him.

“Not yet. I was hoping we could do that together,” Stiles admitted. He span around in Derek’s arms. “I mean, if you don’t want to sleep together then I’m okay with that, but if you do-“

Derek craned his neck and brought his mouth to the boy’s, silencing him before he worked himself into a frenzy.

Stiles melted into Derek’s warmth. He coiled his arms around Derek’s shoulders and threaded his fingers through his raven black hair, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss.

“Get a room,” Scott called from behind them.

Derek broke away from the kiss and replied, “We’re getting there.”

“Is that a yes?” Stiles whispered.

Derek nodded. He took a step back and offered Stiles his hand.

Stiles laced their fingers together and led the way down to the last room of the hallway.

He cautiously pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

It was smaller than the other rooms, cosy.

A large bed took up most of the space, set back in a small alcove in the middle of the room with the foot of the bed facing the window. There was a small shelf above the pillows were the bed frame met the alcove. A faded lamp sat atop the small shelf, pushed into the corner. The people of District Twelve used candles for light as they never got enough power to use mediocre appliances such as lamps, and so the lights were used for decoration more than practical use.

A large hardwood wardrobe was positioned against the far wall, the wooden panels blending in with the colour of the floorboards.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at Derek.

“If you don’t want to-“ the boy started.

“It’s perfect,” Derek assured him. He craned his neck and pressed a tender kiss to the boy’s cheek.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered. “Are you sure?”

“It’s a perfectly fine room, Stiles.”

“I’m not talking about the room.” Stiles dropped his eyes to the floor. “Are you sure you want to be here? With me?”

Derek slid his finger beneath the boy’s chin, tilting his face up.

He stared into the depths of the boy’s amber eyes and whispered, “I don’t want anything else but you.”

Derek was silent for a moment, his sweet smile falling.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked, worried.

“I don’t think your family likes me,” Derek replied.

“Yes, they do,” Stiles assured him. “Do know how I know?” He smiled and leant in a little closer. “Because Isaac doesn’t share his chocolate with anyone. Not even me.”

Derek smiled.

“Scott’s just naturally quiet and he’s probably a little intimidated by you,” Stiles continued. “My dad didn’t know I liked guys, so he’s probably still adjusting to that. Chris is distant from everyone, but if you want him to open up you can always offer to go hunting with him. Melissa has already accepted you as another son and she’s just trying to work out what she needs to do to get us all settled in. There isn’t a single person here who doesn’t like you.”

“Peter,” Derek contested.

“That doesn’t count. Peter hates everyone, including himself.”

Derek chuckled, his warm breath rolling across Stiles’ lips as the boy brought their lips together.

“Stiles,” Scott interrupted, leaning in around the doorframe. “Your dad, Isaac and I are going down to the meadow if you two want to come.”

Stiles glanced at Derek and shrugged.

“Sure,” he replied. “But what about your mum?”

“She’s going to stay here and make a start on dinner,” Scott informed him, already turning to walk down the hallway. “Peter has offered to help, Lydia’s staying to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself, and Chris is staying to make sure Lydia doesn’t hurt Peter.”

Derek chuckled and Stiles wove their fingers together.

“Come on,” Stiles whispered. “I’ll show you the best place in District Twelve.”

 

Isaac skipped ahead of them as they walked through the streets of District Twelve. Stiles and Derek followed him, holding hands as Stiles told him stories about the District: about the place where he grew up, the days he spent in the fields, the people in the markets and how to haggle a good price, his mother, Victoria and Allison, and all the people they had loved and lost.

The meadow seemed so out of place, as if the broken wire fence had leaked the patch of green grass into the dull District. Small daisies and forget-me-nots blossomed among the emerald blades.

Scott raced up to Isaac’s side, lifting him into the air and running through the grass. The boy squealed with joy as Scott tackled him and playfully wrestled him down onto the bed of flowers. He tickled the boy’s ribs, making Isaac squeal and giggle and squirm.

Derek and John stopped at the edge of the grassy patch, lingering behind to watch the boys play.

Stiles let go of Derek’s hand and stepped onto the soft cushion of grass. He ran his fingers through the overgrown patches of grass and weeds that reached his hips.

He took a step closer to the boys.

A thundering boom split the air and Stiles dropped to the ground.

He heaved in rugged breaths, eyes wide with fear as he peered through the grass.

He was back in the arena, standing just before the tree line in the exposed space before the cornucopia.

It was a blood bath.

His eyes focused on two male tributes. They snarled like wolves as they tore gashes out of each other’s flesh. The larger boy pinned the smaller one to the ground. The younger boy let out a savage howl as his opponent grabbed his arms and snapped them. Stiles could hear the popping of joints and breaking bones. He could smell the bitter copper scent of the blood that gushed from their wounds.

Hot tears streaked his vision as he watched on helplessly.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, but nothing came out.

His shoulders trembled with shaky breaths, the cool relief of air never reaching his lungs.

He froze with fear.

His hands were trembling as his eyes frantically darted across the space.

Far away he could see Derek. He was lying on his back, arching off of the ground and kicking about helplessly. He was screaming out for Stiles. He rolled onto his stomach and tried drag his bloody, beaten body to the boy’s side. His broad shoulders shuddered as he hurled up blood. He collapsed to the ground, weakly lifting his head to call out the boy’s name.

Ahead of the older boy was the unmistakable towering figure.

Ennis.

The Career stalked towards the boy, his broad white knuckles threatening to tear through his skin as he tightened on the blood-soaked javelin. His face set in a snarl, blood dripping from his lips as he growled viciously. His cold, lifeless eyes were locked on his next target: Stiles.

Stiles stumbled backwards slightly. One step. Two steps. He tried to move his legs, tried to get feeling back into his numb limbs.

 _Run_ , he screamed at himself. _Run and hide_. _Run!_

He wheeled backwards, his legs collapsing beneath him. He rolled onto his front and his hands sinking into the damp mud as he steadied himself. His wheeling limbs kicked up clumps of dirt and grass, getting him nowhere. Finally, he found traction. He leapt to his feet and ran.

From somewhere behind him, he could hear Derek scream his name. But it was too far away.

 _Run_.

It felt as if everything was moving in slow motion, as if every second was dramatised and every heart beat was expected to be his last.

He sprinted towards the dense forest, ducking under a fallen log.

A jagged branch caught his sleeve.

He let out a painful yelp, pulling his arm free and ignoring the streams of blood that poured from the deep gash. He stumbled slightly, cradling his arm to his chest as he ran further into the forest.

 _Run_ , his mind repeated over and over. _Just keep running_.

He wove his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He leapt over the fallen trees, broken branches and thick shrubs. His nimble legs and spring-locked ankles projected him over the large logs. The thick undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He struggled to keep himself upright, trying not to stumble or trip as he sprinted away from the massacre.

The sounds began to drown away as he ran further and further into the dense forest.

Tears streaked his cheeks and his lungs burnt for air.

 _Run_. _Just keep running_.

He was sobbing, breathless as he collapsed to the ground in a small clearing. He laid still for a second, feeling the cool relief of dew drops dampen his skin. Slowly he steadied his breathing and rose to his hands and knees to look about the clearing.

Light streamed through the break in the foliage, pouring over the body that lay amongst the blossoming flowers.

She looked angelic. Her skin glowed in the light, holding more colour than the bleached petals of the lilies, daisies, roses and budding flowers that surrounded her. The strands of wolfsbane that Derek had woven through her hair had grown into a crown, buds and blue flowers encircling her head.

“Allison,” Stiles whispered, creeping a little closer.

He reached out and brushed his fingers across the skin of her cheek.

Her eyes flew wide open, dark irises focused on him.

He wheeled backwards. His back hit the solid trunk of a tree.

Her trembling hand reached out towards him.

“You… could’ve… saved… me,” she rasped.

“I tried,” Stiles whispered, tears falling to the ground. “I tried.”

“Sing for me,” she pleaded.

Stiles opened his mouth, but before he could make any noise her body collapsed back against the flowers. Her pale hands struck the ground, vines of flowers weaving their way across her flesh and encasing her body. Her lifeless eyes stared up at the boy.

Stiles laid down on the ground and curled up among the jagged roots of the large pine tree.

The drifting wisp of a memory reached him.

Sties remembered how the man rested a heavy hand on his slender shoulder. He remembered how Chris’ bright eyes sparkled with worry and care despite his own pain as he looked at the boy. He remembers how the man had been by their sides every time: first when Stiles’ mother died, then Victoria, and the collapsed mine that killed Scott’s dad and Isaac’s family.

“If something bad has happened and I don’t want to talk about it, do you know what I do?” Chris asked, his voice quiet; drowned by the distance of a fading memory. “I just say ‘It all happened so fast’. If you don’t want to talk to anyone about what happened, just say that. Try it.”

Stiles swallowed hard, tears rolling across the bridge of his nose. “It all happened so fast,” he whispered. He repeated it over and over until a dark shadow passed over him.

Strong arms lifted him off the cold ground, enveloping him in the warmth of the loving hug.

He looked up at the sparkling aventurine eyes, their depths full of worry.

“We’ve got to go,” Stiles muttered.

“Go where?” Derek asked.

“Anywhere,” the boy replied. “We can’t stay here. We’ve got to run.”

“Stiles, where are we?” Derek asked him, his voice soft and quiet.

Stiles looked up at his soft aventurine eyes. There was no judgment, only concern for the boy.

Stiles glanced around.

The body was gone.

“I don’t know,” he rasped, his voice weak.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered, cupping the boy’s cheek. “The Games are over. We’re safe.”

Stiles glanced down, slowly recovering the memories that had twisted his reality.

“We’re in Twelve,” Derek continued. “Just beyond the fence. No-one’s going to hurt you.”

“I can’t face them,” Stiles whispered, shoulder trembling as he sobbed. “I don’t want my dad or Scott or anyone to have to deal with this.”

“It’s okay,” Derek whispered. “It’s going to take time, but we’ll get there, okay? You’ve got me and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Stiles sobbed.

“You’re not a burden,” Derek assured him. “I need you. Your family needs you. And we all love you.”

Derek pressed a tender kiss to the top of the boy’s head.

Stiles nestled into the Derek’s warmth, resting his forehead against his shoulder.

Derek lifted the frail boy into his arms, slowly rising to his feet and holding Stiles close. He carried the boy back through the forest until they reached the District fence. He set the boy down on his feet and let him crawl through the gap in the wire.

Scott and John raced to their side.

“You okay?” his father asked, panicked.

Stiles was silent.

“I’m going to take him home,” Derek whispered.

“Get Melissa to look at his arm,” John instructed.

Derek nodded and lifted his arm around Stiles’ shoulders.

From behind them, he could hear Isaac cry, “Where’s Stiles going?”

John told him that he was heading back to the Victor’s Village while they went and got their stuff from the old house.

Derek guided him through the streets and back through the large gates.

Stiles was unresponsive as Melissa asked him how he was and what happened. She cleaned his gaping wound and carefully dressed it in a bandage.

When she was done, Derek led the boy upstairs and settled him into bed.

He crouched beside the bed and gently stroked Stiles’ ruffled hair away from the boy’s face. He pressed a soft kiss to the Stiles’ temple and whispered, “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.”

Stiles nodded weakly.

He watched as Derek left, leaving the door off the latch as he made his way down the hallway.

Minutes later, Peter entered the room. He set a glass of golden liquor down on the small shelf above the boy’s head.

He looked down at the boy and said, “It helped me.”

With that, the man turned to leave.

Stiles sat upright in bed. He snatched up the glass and hurled it at Peter.

The glass shattered against the door frame, sparkling drops of whiskey and shards of glass raining over the man.

Peter glanced over his shoulder at Stiles.

The boy glared at him, shoulders heaving with rugged breaths.

Peter drew in a deep breath and muttered, “Fair enough.”

He left.

Stiles laid back down on the bed, pulling his knees close to his chest.

Peter obviously ran into Derek in the hallway, because Stiles could hear their furious argument echo throughout the house.

Lydia and Derek raced into the boy’s room, asking if Stiles was okay and cleaning up the shattered glass.

Stiles didn’t say anything. He rolled over on the bed, turning his back to the door.

He heard Lydia sigh before turning to leave. Derek hesitated. He was about to say something but decided against it. He carefully pulled the door shut, leaving it slightly ajar.

Stiles listened to the heavy footsteps as they faded down the hallway.

He was left alone in the silence of the room.

He tried to smother his sobs, silently crying into his pillow. Warm tears streaked his cheeks, rolling over the bridge of his nose before falling against the soft cotton pillow slip. He watched as the droplets soaked into the fibres, dampening and darkening the pale fabric.

It felt like hours before anyone else came into the room.

There’s a soft knock at the door. The hinges creaked open and soft footsteps pattered across the floorboards. The mattress wavered as Isaac crept over to his side.

Stiles looked at the boy, smiling weakly.

The boy uncurled his arms and offered Stiles the tattered old patchwork teddy bear.

Isaac whispered, “He helped me when I was sad and he fought off my scary nightmares. Maybe he can help you.”

Stiles smiled weakly, his eyes warming as another wave of tears threatened to fall. He took the teddy from the boy and hugged it close to his chest. Stiles thanked the boy.

Isaac leant forward and kissed Stiles’ forehead.

“I love you, Stiles,” he said.

The boy shuffled off of the bed and left the room before Stiles had the chance to whisper, “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For gilmoreG and anyone who is interested:  
> The Victor’s Village in The Hunger Games looked a lot like old Victorian buildings (http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/thehungergames/images/1/15/Victors_village.jpg/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/358?cb=20131202055722), but it always struck me as strange that they had so many houses for the victors and only one previous victor, especially considering no one ever expected District Twelve to win. My idea may have also been swayed by the fact that I love the look and layout of the Hale house (burnt or not). And so, the victor’s house in the Village of this piece is as elegant as the Hale house in its youth (http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/teenwolf/images/2/2e/-Extreme_hale_house_makeover.png/revision/latest?cb=20120725032806) but dulled by the poverty of District Twelve and so looks like the burnt remains of the house (https://www.teenwolfwiki.com/files/~1539/17188-original.png), just not in ruins.  
> Despite the fact that the victors are rich and paid for by the Capitol, in The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, the inside view of the kitchen showed that it was still in a state of poverty – with holes in the curtains and blankets pinned to the windows in their place (http://www.mtv.com/crop-images/2014/11/21/cfpeetabread.gif). I did like this aspect as it was a familiar setting for Stiles – having come from poverty – and being thrust into a world of perfection like he was in the Capitol, it would have made him uncomfortable in the place he was to call home.  
> Unlike their old house, the kitchen, lounge room, dining room and the alcove they had designated the bathroom are all separate rooms.  
> I like the simplicity of the colour scheme shown in Catching Fire – the pastels and earthy tones of brown that contrasted the bold colours of the Capitol (http://www.jabberjays.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/Katniss-VV.jpg). The living room would have this colour scheme: two beige couches that are large enough for the family to huddle together on and a small armchair in the naughty corner for Peter, blue and grey cushions atop the couches, a small television, and a fireplace framed by cream bricks.  
> There’s a small office-like alcove with a library-worth of books on mahogany bookshelves, for Derek, (http://classyclosets.com/images/media-centers/40%20Mahogany%20Impression%20Bookshelves%20with%20Full%20Backs.jpg) with an old – but not uncomfortable or ratty – grey couch that he sits on with Stiles or Isaac to read stories to them.  
> The kitchen is high class for their society, but still rather old-fashioned (http://www.caddomineral.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/our-messy-cabin-kitchen-photo-by-wes-erbsen-log-cabin-cooking-cabin-kitchen-backsplash-cabin-kitchen-remodel.jpg). It’s stocked full of food and unlimited rations for Melissa to make medicines and perfumes, and for Isaac to eat.  
> The dining room would be a little more extravagant with carved chairs, a cabinet for the plates and fine china, and a large table to fit their family (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9c/2008-04-12_Freilichtmuseum_Detmold_(34).jpg or http://i519.photobucket.com/albums/u353/shopfactorydirect/Crown%20Mark/2145T-2146.jpg)  
> Most of the bedrooms – in my head at least – would look like cabins (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/13/f8/3e/13f83e22fb04df14949412c87f52b42e.jpg) with wooden walls, simple furniture and natural tones. John, Chris and Peter would have their own rooms, simple like Stiles and Derek’s but individualised by photos of loved ones, or bottles of alcohol for Peter (and yes, he lives with them; Melissa wouldn’t let him live in a big house by himself). The bedroom that Scott and Isaac share would be similar but with double beds (http://telp.dallasacu.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/twin-bed-frames-ideas.jpg) only with lots of teddies on Isaac’s. But I also wanted something that reflected Stiles’ room, and so Isaac’s room (when he sleeps in it) would look like Stiles’ bedroom in Season 3 on. It’d have blue walls that were covered in photographs and drawings, a dresser full of clothes, and a cluttered desk of whittled figures, toys and everything he wants to play with (apologies, I couldn’t find better photos: http://www.keysmashblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/5-stiles-dream-sheriff.jpg, http://38.media.tumblr.com/98a1e93a8210e4d80eac14408ecd8763/tumblr_inline_niqvx7URiN1rqzowg.png and http://67.media.tumblr.com/3fd79bd046af567f9735e0a15cdecdbf/tumblr_nc4ah4Nqb01rohg16o2_500.gif). Even though he doesn’t sleep there, he uses the bedroom as a play room or a place to store all his toys and to hide away when he needs to. Melissa’s room would be a little more classy but still simple (http://www.beachsidewhiterock.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/french-country-bedroom-ideas-for-women-with-classic-chandelier.jpg).  
> Sorry, that was a long description and a lot of links and photos to look at, hopefully you like it. :)


	20. Chapter 20

Stiles didn’t sleep, he just zoned in and out of reality. Restless and frustrated, he gave up on trying to sleep.

He got out of bed and made his way downstairs. He stopped in the open doorway of the dining room, leaning against the wooden arch and watching Derek and Isaac. They sat together at the table, smiling and talking quietly as they ate bowls full of ice cream and chocolate.

The fact that the younger boy was slowly warming up to Derek gave Stiles hope. Seeing their smiles made Stiles feel comfortable in the thought that Derek was going to fit in after all.

Stiles crept into the room and wound his arms around Isaac. The boy squeaked with joy and returned the hug.

Derek pulled out a chair for Stiles to sit between them. He patted at the seat and got up to fetch a spoon from the kitchen. He passed the spoon to Stiles and gently pushed his bowl towards the boy. Stiles took a spoonful of ice cream and ate it, smiling sweetly at Derek.

Derek reached forward and pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple.

Isaac giggled.

Stiles chuckled and looked at the younger boy. “How are you, buddy?”

“I’m good,” Isaac replied. “Did the teddy help?”

“Yeah, he did,” Stiles whispered. “Thank you.”

“Guess what, Stiles?” Isaac said joyfully. “Melissa said I can have a bubble bath in the morning. It’s like a normal bath, but you add some special stuff to it and it gets all bubbly like the river and it smells nice. And I can wear the new shirt that Scott got me for my birthday. And Derek said that I can have some jam and scones in the morning – I don’t know what scones are, but apparently they’re like little cakes.”

Stiles smiled, not really listening to Isaac as the boy listed all of the new things he was promised and other things he wanted to try, but simply watching the joy light up the boy’s youthful face.

Scott stepped into the dining room, having heard Isaac say Stiles’ name.

“Hey, I’ve got your old stuff if you want to go through it,” Scott offered.

Stiles nodded and excused himself as he rose from his seat. He pressed a tender kiss to the crown of Isaac’s head before following Scott upstairs.

Scott fetched the bag from his room and offered it to his friend. Stiles took it gratefully and carried it to his new room. He set it down on the bed and began to unpack the contents in his bedroom.

Scott lingered in the doorway.

“We also got your pillow,” Scott informed him, offering the thin pillow to him. “Hopefully you can get a good night’s sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered. “I don’t mean to be so much trouble.”

“Stiles,” Scott said firmly. “You’re not a burden. We’re worried about you. That’s just part of being a family.” Scott stepped inside the room and pulled his friend into his arms. “You’re my brother, Stiles. I worry about you more than I could ever explain. But I’m here for you, I promise.”

“Thanks, Scott,” Stiles whispered, returning the hug.

As Scott sat back he looked his friend in the eye. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” Stiles admitted honestly, feeling warm tears well up in his eyes. “All it took was one loud noise and I was back in that arena. I didn’t recognise you or Isaac or my dad. What if I had hurt you?”

“You didn’t,” Scott reminded him. “And you wouldn’t have; you’re better than that.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Without a doubt,” Scott assured him.

Stiles smiled weakly, but it soon faded. “Even though I killed someone?”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Scott explained calmly. “It was self-defence.”

Stiles sighed. He wanted to believe it was true, but he wasn’t sure he could convince himself it was.

“Listen,” Scott started slowly. “I’m going to go hunting in the morning. I know we don’t need anything but it’ll be good to just get out and walk. If you want to, you can come with me?”

“That sounds great, thanks,” Stiles whispered.

Scott helped him put away the rest of the clothes before heading back towards the door. Stiles stopped just short of the door, quickly fetching the ratty old teddy bear from the bed.

He carried it downstairs, looking throughout the rooms before finding Isaac in the study. The boy was curled up against Derek’s warmth, listening as Derek read him a story. The older boy’s husky voice was lulling Isaac to sleep, his shimmering blue eyes fluttering shut.

Scott followed Stiles into the room. He looked at his friend and mouthed, “Wow.”

Stiles nodded in agreement.

Scott stepped forward and helped lift Isaac off of Derek. Stiles gave the boy his teddy and let Scott carry him up to bed.

Stiles walked over to Derek’s side, taking Isaac’s place and curling up in his warmth.

“You can read, right?” Derek whispered.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered. “Not large words like those in the medical journals but I know basic words.”

“So why can’t Isaac read?” Derek asked.

“We can’t afford school,” Stiles admitted. “I went for a few years before my mum got sick. After that all our money went towards her medication and treatment. Scott went for a year or two more than me. He went up until the mines caved and killed his dad, Isaac’s dad and Isaac’s older brother. Our family kind of came together after that. Isaac never got to go to school. After that we never had enough money to go to school. And because we didn’t go to school, we spent the days hunting and foraging and trading at the market in order to get by.”

Stiles felt Derek’s chest sink with a sigh.

“It’s okay, though,” Stiles assured him. “Could you imagine Isaac sitting in a classroom and listening all day without me and Scott?”

“What if I taught him?” Derek offered. “I mean, he liked stories, so he should at least have the choice to read them himself.”

“You would do that?” Stiles asked.

“I’d try. It’s not fair that you all have struggled through so much and not have anything like a basic education.”

“It won’t be hard to get him to listen to you; he really likes you,” Stiles muttered.

“He must get it from you,” Derek teased, gently tousling the boy’s hair before pressing a tender kiss to the crown of his head.

“Hey,” Derek whispered. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nodded. “I just need time to get over everything that has happened. I’m just scared I’m going to push everyone away or hurt someone.”

Derek wrapped his strong arms around the boy and whispered, “We’re not going anywhere.”

 

He sprinted through the dense forest, weaving his way through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the mess of fallen trees, broken branches, thick shrubs, and large logs. The undergrowth and claw-like twigs dragged at his feet. He struggled to keep himself upright. His legs dragged behind him, the muscles burning with pain.

Stiles stumbled, his legs collapsing beneath him as he toppled down an embankment and struck the ground. He grunted, panting as he pushed himself up onto his hands. Jagged twigs pierced his palms. He blinked rapidly, looking across the thick blanket of damp fallen leaves as he tried to make sense out of shadows and shapes. His eyes were wide with shock as they fell upon a figure lying on the ground.

His olive skin had faded to a chalky white and thick bloody gashes tore open his face. His pale eyes were clouded and darkened as they stared into oblivion.

His lips quivered as the name fell weakly past Stiles’ lips.

“Derek?”

A loud cannon fired overhead, quickly followed by the Capitol anthem as the emblem lit up the sky.

Stiles scurried to his feet, picking up a rock and hurling it up at the sky.

He let out a savage cry and collapsed to his knees as the bold portrait lit up the sky.

His raven black hair and the shadow of his beard blended into the dark abyss of the night sky. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, his sparkling irises shifting colour in the light of the projection: from their true shade of aventurine to an icy shade of blue. His piercing gaze stared forward, his expression was set in a confident and threatening scowl.

The fallen tribute of District Two.

Derek Hale.

“No!” Stiles wailed.

Tears streaked his vision.

The light burnt his eyes.

He shut them, letting the hot tears roll down his cheeks.

He let out a painful, heart-breaking cry and blinked his eyes open to the anaemic light of the morning sun that bled through the curtains.

He tightened his hold on the arm that was laid across his slender waist.

Derek snuggled closer to the boy in response, nuzzling his neck and kissing his skin.

Stiles rolled over and gently kissed Derek.

Derek blinked his lethargic eyes open. “Hmm?”

“I’m just going to head out with Scott,” Stiles whispered.

“Want me to come?” Derek murmured.

“No, I’ll be okay,” Stiles promised. “Get some sleep and take care of Isaac until we get back.”

“Okay,” Derek whispered.

He reached up and cupped the back of Stiles’ skull, bringing their lips together. The kiss was tender and blissful. Stiles hummed contently as he melted into Derek’s hold.

Stiles reluctantly drew back.

“I’ve got to go,” Stiles whispered. He rose out of bed and quickly dressed. He grabbed a pair of boots and made his way towards the door. “By the way, if Isaac wakes up and he’s still sleepy, he might crawl into bed with you or my dad.”

Derek hummed in acknowledgment.

Stiles quickly scurried back to the bed and kissed Derek.

“I love you,” Stiles whispered.

“I love you too.”

Stiles made his way out of the room and downstairs. He found Scott in the kitchen.

“You coming?” Scott asked, handing Stiles a chunk of bread.

Stiles nodded and bit into the soft flesh of the freshly cooked bread. He hummed and stared at Scott with wide eyes.

“Good, isn’t it?” Scott remarked, pulling on his boots.

“Who made this?” Stiles asked, taking another bite of the sweet dough.

“Peter did,” Scott announced. “Then he took the whiskey and passed out on the couch again. Don’t worry, I took the bottle off of him and made him lie down with a blanket and your dad knows so that he can tell Isaac not to wake him.”

“I’m more worried about what Derek will do to him,” Stiles explained.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Scott asked.

Stiles didn’t answer. He chuckled and pulled on his boots, shaking his head as he walked out the front door.

“What?” Scott insisted, jogging to catch up to Stiles.

“Peter is Derek’s uncle,” Stiles explained. “There’s some bad blood between them.”

Scott stopped in his traces, staring at his friend in shock. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Peter – snarky, bitter Peter – is related to Derek?”

Stiles nodded.

“Wow,” Scott gasped. “You got the good branch of the family tree.”

Stiles smiled and rolled his eyes.

Scott swung his arm around his friend’s shoulder.

“Stiles, I just want you to know that I love you,” Scott said sincerely. “You’re my brother and I’d give anything for you. I couldn’t care less if we lived in the lap of luxury or if we had to scrounge and struggle to survive, as long as I have you by my side, I’ll face anything.”

Stiles dropped his head to Scott’s shoulder.

“I’ll never forgive myself for letting you go into the Games.”

Stiles elbowed Scott in the gut.

The teenager doubled over gasping for air. “What the hell was that for?”

“Don’t you _ever_ say that again,” Stiles growled, pointing an accusing finger at him. “It’s not your fault that I went into the Games; I volunteered. You have no right to feel guilty, Scott. You didn’t play their game. You didn’t kill someone. You didn’t leave your family behind.”

Scott stood upright. He could count all of Stiles’ tells: the quiver of his lip, the slight but rapid shake of his head, the trembled of his hand and the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

Stiles tried to blink back the tears that stung his eyes and streaked his vision.

Scott took a step forward and pulled Stiles into his arms.

“You didn’t leave us,” Scott whispered. “And we never let you go.”

Stiles clawed at the back of his friend’s jacket, sobbing into his shoulder.

“I hate you sometimes,” Stiles muttered.

“That’s just part of being brothers.”

When they finally calmed down they made their way across the District and into the meadow. They ducked under the gap in the fence and made their way into the forest.

“You do realise that your mum is going to yell at me for not changing the bandage,” Stiles remarked, looking down at his forearm.

“You’d only get it dirty,” Scott argued. “And if she gets angry at you then I’ll say it’s my fault because I rushed you out the door.”

Scott stopped at the familiar hollowed-out tree. Weapons were banned in the District, so they stored their hunting equipment in the trunk of the old pine tree.

Scott reached inside of it and pulled out a long wooden spear. He offered it to Stiles who froze for a moment.

“Stiles, you don’t have to use it,” Scott assured him. “You can just carry it, okay?”

“Alright,” Stiles agreed, taking a hold of the spear.

Scott retrieved a quiver of arrows and shrugged them onto his shoulder before retrieving the longbow.

They spent nearly an hour stalking through the dense forest, carefully placing their steps among the lush green foliage. It was just like the old days when they lost themselves to nature, enjoying the peaceful quiet of the undisturbed morning and the easy comfort of each other’s company. Scott caught a few rabbits and strung them up on branches so that predators couldn’t steal their spoils. Stiles foraged through the undergrowth, gathering berries and herbs.

As Scott was stringing up his fourth rabbit. Stiles spotted a boar across the space.

Before Scott saw it and told his friend to run, Stiles adjusted his grip on the spear and hurled it at the hog. The carved point tore through the flesh, spearing its chest and lodging between its ribs. The boar let out a surprised squawk before falling still atop a bed of grass.

Stiles straightened his back, relaxing his shoulders. He walked over to the boar and pulled the spear from its corpse.

Scott stared at him in shock, silent and unblinking. He scurried over to the boar as if to make sure what he saw was real.

Stiles retuned the gaze with a soft smile before asking, “Didn’t you ever wonder how I got such a high score in the Gamemakers Assessment?”

“Well, yeah,” Scott admitted. “I mean, you got a score of ten. That was…”

“Unlike me?” Stiles offered.

Scott nodded.

“Well, while I was giving my assessment, the Gamemakers weren’t paying attention. I got angry and threw my spear through their suckling pig,” Stiles explained.

“Dude,” Scott gasped, a hint of humour in his voice as he chuckled breathlessly.

Stiles laughed with him.

Slowly his laughter died away. “Allison was shocked, and a little offended, that I did better than her.”

Scott gently rested his broad hand atop Stiles’ shoulder. He could see the twinkle of pain in his friend’s eye and offered Stiles a reassuring smile. “You did what you could.”

Stiles’ shoulders dropped. “Does it really mean anything?”

Scott looked at him with confusion. “What?”

“I try. All I ever do is try. But does it amount to anything? I tried to help my mum and she thought I was trying to kill her. I volunteered for you but I couldn’t save you from the pain. I tried to save Kira and as soon as I turned my back she got killed. I tried to protect Allison and she died shielding me. I tried to save Derek and I killed Chris’ sister. All I ever do is try. I try and I always fail.”

Scott levelled his gaze with his friend. “You have never failed. I lost Allison the minute they called her name. I thought I had lost you too. I was so scared when you volunteered for me. But I got you back, and that’s more than I could ever wish for.”

“Allison deserved to be here, not me,” Stiles argued. “You deserve Allison, not me.”

“I’ve got you,” Scott replied. “And I’m okay with that.”

“But-”

“Every tribute deserved to be here. But some don’t make it.”

Stiles bowed his head.

Scott took a step forward and rested his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s strange not to have her here with us, but it’s something we’ll learn to accept with time. Until then, you’re here, and I’m glad you are.” Scott bent over and lifted the boar by its hind legs. “And I think we should roast this for dinner. We’ll glaze it, bake it and shove an apple in its mouth in your honour.”

 

The two boys made their way back through town and into the market. They traded the rabbits and berries for the jacket Isaac had been eyeing for months and some more clothes for the younger boy – even though they were cared for by the Capitol.

Stiles kept conversations brief, not quite ready to socialise with anyone outside of his family. Besides, Scott was better at bargaining and trading. He kept his hands in his pockets, his amber eyes surveying the familiar setting.

It broke his heart to see so many people living in squalor.

A young girl caught his eye. She was no older that eight years old with ratty light brown locks and icy pale skin. She was curled up against her mother’s chest. Her frail body shuddered violently, teeth chattering and limbs trembling as she clung to the fraying fabric of her mother’s robe.

Stiles slowly made his way over to their side. He shrugged off his jacket and laid it around the girl’s shoulders.

The little girl looked up at him, a glimmer of hope and gratitude sparkling in her hazel eyes as she smiled weakly.

Stiles returned the smile before looking at her mother. “Do you have something to eat?”

The mother shook her head.

Stiles rose to his feet, digging into his pocket for some loose change. He scurried over to a nearby stand and bought two bowls of soup. He carefully carried them back to the mother and her child. He set one bowl down on a flattened tree stump and handed the other bowl to the mother, cautioning her that it was hot as she fed spoonfuls to her daughter.

He rose to his feet again and bought a small loaf of bread. He brought it back to her and tore off a little bit. He offered it to the girl who took it with chubby fingers and dipped it into the soup. She gently nibbled at it, her smile brightening as she looked from her mother to Stiles.

Tears of relief welled in her mother’s eyes as she watched a shade of pink warm her child’s pale cheeks.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered to Stiles.

Stiles balanced the loaf of bread over the second bowl of soup.

“If you need anything, come find me,” Stiles told her.

She nodded, soft tears rolling down her hollow cheeks as she thanked him over and over again. He smiled sweetly at the little girl before rising to his feet again. He made his way over to Scott’s side. His eyes fell upon Ethan and Aiden. The twins stood at the far end of the market, their expressions a mix of shock and guilt.

Stiles squinted in thought.

What did they have to feel guilty about?

A gruff voice shook him from his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Scott, but I just don’t have anything to trade with you. My son’s sick and I can’t even afford medicine for him.”

Stiles turned to the man, looking at his hollow face. It was so strange to see Mr Finstock this way. He was always tired, dishevelled, snarky and grouchy – a little like Peter but with thicker, darker hair and a better sense of humour and mentorship – but the boys had never seen him so broken.

“When was the last time you ate, Coach?” Stiles asked.

“A few days, maybe a week,” the man replied.

Stiles looked at Scott and the older boy nodded.

“Here.” Scott offered the man a rabbit.

“Scott, I can’t trade with you,” Finstock repeated.

“We’re not asking for a trade,” Stiles explained. “We have plenty. Take the rabbit, feed your family.”

“And bring your son by our house,” Scott added. “My mum might have something that can help.”

“And if you ever need food or rations, come to the Village,” Stiles told him. “We have plenty to go around.”

The man began to cry tears of relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered gratefully.

Stiles smiled at him and looked around at the market place, feeling his heart sink and break at the sight of sickly people forced to work in order to get by.

He swallowed hard and stepped into the centre of the market place.

All eyes fell on him.

The District fell silent.

“I want to make it known that if anyone cannot afford rations or medicine, you are more than welcome to come by the Victor’s Village,” Stiles announced. “Please. No-one in this District should ever have to starve or struggle to survive. Never again.”

 

Stiles stepped into the foyer of the house and followed the sweet sound of light-hearted laughter into the kitchen.

Scott had gone around the back of the house to skin and gut the boar before stringing it up. He had taken the pelt back to the market to give to the local tailor, free of charge as long as he used it to make something for Chris – a sheath for his hunting knife or a pair of leather gloves for hunting so the string of his bow didn’t break the skin of his fingers when he pulled it taut.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asked as he stepped into the kitchen.

“Peter’s ugly and Derek’s pretty, but Melissa’s the prettiest,” Isaac half-explained.

Derek and Melissa burst out in laughter.

A smile lifted Isaac’s cheeks and Stiles couldn’t help but smile in return.

“I agree,” Stiles replied, still slightly confused. He shook his head and headed back towards the bulk of the house.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Melissa called after him.

“For a bath and then I will change my bandage,” Stiles explained. He took a step into the dining room before ducking back around the doorframe. “Oh, and Coach is going to drop by later. His son’s sick and he needs some rations. And considering we have an unlimited stock, there’s no harm in sharing, right?”

Melissa looked at him with pride.

Stiles smiled and nodded to her before turning and walking back through the dining room.

“Put bubbles in it!” Isaac called after him. “It’s really fun.”

Stiles chuckled and made his way upstairs.

Stiles fetched a change of clothes and filled the bath. He could feel the warmth of the water brush against his skin as it steamed up the bathroom. He stripped his dirty hunting clothes and carefully unwound the bandage before sinking into the bath with a sigh.

He washed the dirt from his skin, watching as the water swirled with trails of soap and dirt.

He didn’t waste time relaxing in the warmth.

He pulled the plug and drained the bath. He carefully climbed out of the brass tub and dried himself, dressing in a neat shirt, soft hooded jacket and a pair of jeans.

He made his way downstairs. He took a step into the lounge room only to be pulled back towards the dining room.

“Sit,” Melissa instructed, fetching a small medical kit. She retrieved a clean bandage and water before returning to the boy’s side. She pulled up the Stiles’ sleeve and carefully rinsed the wound. She dabbed the moisture away from the wound and checked it for any sign of infection.

Stiles felt her tender fingers brush against his forearm as she wrapped the new bandage around his arm.

Satisfied, she nodded at Stiles and let the boy stand up and scurry into the other room.

He made his way through the lounge room and found Derek the study. The boy was sitting on the old grey couch, his legs stretched across the cushions with a leather bound book rested in his lap. His bright eyes were focused on the text as he flicked through the pages.

Stiles walked over to his side.

Derek lifted his arms, not taking his eyes off of the book as Stiles climbed into his lap and laid down against the older boy’s broad chest.

Derek lowered his arms around Stiles shoulder. His eyes moved quicker back and forth across the page as he tried to finish the paragraph.

Stiles nuzzled his face into Derek’s shirt, feeling his warmth brush against his skin. He could hear the steady thump of Derek’s heartbeat. He could smell the soft musk of his natural scent and the sweetness of strawberries and coconut oil – thanks to the new shampoos that were stocked up in the bathroom.

Derek fitted his finger between the pages and shut the book. He craned his neck to look down at Stiles and asked, “Are you okay?”

“I have one last question for you,” Stiles whispered.

Derek sat back slightly and craned his neck to look Stiles in the eyes. “Okay. What is it?”

Stiles swallowed hard. “You love me, real or not real?”

Derek leant forward and laid a tender kiss against the boy’s lips. He drew back just enough to draw breath and whisper his answer.

“Real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of Prey, and I just want to say thank you to all of those who came along for the ride. Thank you to all my readers and to those who left me comments on AO3 and on Tumblr.  
> Again, thank you all so much for your support. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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